sickdaysofficial

[sickdaysofficial]

concerning the possible next event, would it be allowed to submit a few paragraphs and then instead of a readmore insert a link to the full fic on my own blog? like lots of writers on tumblr do when they post a paragraph or two and then put an ao3 link instead of a readmore. or is it either submit the whole thing or don't submit at all?

That’s totally doable! I think we actually had a user do that this time around. Just make sure it’s a working link, of course!

-Mod J

Hey that’s a great idea! Yeah we can def include that next time around!

-Admin G

[sickdaysofficial]

Annnnnd that’s a wrap, folks!

Thank you all for a wonderful event! It’s been great to get back into the swing of things, and even though we didn’t have as many submissions this time around, it was still great to see all your wonderful work (both submitted and non-submitted)!!

We hope to get back to regular semiannual events, like the first five were, so keep your eyes peeled this winter for another prompt list!!

In the meantime, keep up the great work! Thank you again for all your submissions and support, and we’ll see you next time!!

- Admins G and J

[sickdaysofficial]

May 23

Prompt: Red

  Unspecified verse, Modern Captain America AU

Warnings: combat imagery, vomiting, nightmares and flashbacks

Submitted by @mohini-musing

————

  Months pass and his dreams are quiet, calm. Then the nights come that are painted in shades of crimson and scarlet, the deep vermilion of coagulated gore, the lighter salmon of leaking plasma from freshly stitched wounds. He wasn’t a medic. But he was more than well acquainted with the men who needed them. Big and strong and fast, he tossed his brothers in arms over a shoulder and ran with them on sandy roads and dust choked alleyways. He watched pink mist rise from the bodies ahead of him when a door clearance turned to a body count.

This time, it’s Denison. Gawky kid with thick glasses and hair so pale it’s practically white. Barely old enough to shave and he’s taking point on building entry. They’re half a block yet to clear before they can head back to base, doing the pointless knock and rock rounds. The enemy combatants they find rarely have high target value. The ones they don’t have a tendency to take one of their own with them.

History will look back on this someday and judge it a waste of human life, and that’s the only thing James has known for certain since he reupped for tour number four. No matter, the door swings open, Denison shouts identification, and the world goes bright and wrong.

James is the one to grab the body that used to be a silly kid, drag him backward while the rest of the fire squad swarms in. He hears the shots but he doesn’t think about them. Can’t. He’s got a dying man in his arms and he tells him lies as loud as he can. That it’s going to be okay. That help is coming. When it doesn’t, he closes the eyes on the kid and picks him up one more time, hauling him to the waiting vehicle. The mortuary affairs people will take him once they get back, but for now it’s all him. Always all him. He chokes, spits, heaves up coffee and water into the dust on the road.

He wakes to someone shaking him, hands gripping his shoulders, a voice calling his name. He can’t reorient fast enough and he swings out. Instinct fails, though, and the swing lacks a hand at the end of it. Steve doesn’t even have to duck to avoid impact.

“Fuck,” he mutters, breath coming too fast for the word to be much more than an abbreviated exhalation.

His stomach lurches, and he leans over the edge of the bed to spit last night’s dinner onto the rug. He laughed when Steve stuck an area rug over the carpet there. He doesn’t find it funny anymore now that they’re on the fourth one thanks to his nightmares. Steve’s talking to him, telling him lies about how it’s okay. How it will pass. How he’s safe and home and it’s alright.

Home, sure. Safe? Probably not so much. And as to alright – well, that one’s never going to happen. There’s too much red in his dreams and always will be for that to work out.

#sickdays 6 #23 may 2020 #whump #emeto #tw vomit #sickfic #puke #injury #tw gore #tw blood #tw injury #tw combat #tw violence #nightmares #flashbacks #submission

[sickdaysofficial]

Sickdays May 23: Red

Submitter: @builder051

Fandom: Misc. Avengers

Warnings: injury, violence, blood, vomit

____________________

Nat doesn’t see the blood immediately because it’s the same color as his suit.  Nor does she see him falling.  In her peripheral vision, it looks like he’s just rocketing down from the sky, coming in for a landing somewhere to her right.  She thinks he’s going to pick up some shots at the Hydra agents over there, so she moves instinctively to the left, knocking down targets who think they’re hidden behind a bank of snow.

When Tony hits the ground, though, it’s clear something’s wrong.  Fuzz sounds over the communication device in Nat’s ear.  Then he collapses flat on his back, his legs bouncing up, then down, sinking down several inches into the frost.  

“Stark?”  Nat presses her ear to her shoulder to be sure her comm is working right.  “What happened?”

“Ugh” is all she gets in reply.  

Nat glances furtively between her target and her ally, knowing clearly which is more important, but unwilling to give up her shot on the other.  She shuts one eye and discharges her weapon twice, not looking back to see if the agent fell.  Then she takes off plowing through the snow.

“Ok, what’s wrong?”  Nat falls to her knees at Tony’s side.  His metal-encased arms seem to be trembling, and he barely has the strength and coordination to retract his faceplate.  

“Shot, I guess–” he starts.  Then coughs, and a trickle of blood runs from the side of his mouth down his chin.  “Zapped my power.  And the–” He coughs again.  “Reserves.”

Nat digs her fingers under Tony’s shoulder and pulls him onto his side.  More redness begins to flow from a puncture in one side of his chest.  

“Gonnabesick,” he murmurs in one breath, and Nat holds him as vomit tinged with pink trickles into the snow between them.  

“It’s ok,” Nat tells him.  “Probably a punctured lung or something.  Definitely fixable.”  She offers a bland smile.

“Better be,” Tony groans.  “Or you’d be screwed on the next mission.”

Nat shakes her head and laughs, but decides to indulge him.  “Only you, Stark.  Now shut up and let me call medevac, yes?”

#sickdays 6 #23 may 2020 #submission #whump #injury #tw violence #tw blood #tw vomit #blood #puke #vomit #emeto #emetophilia #marvel #mcu #tony stark #builder051

[sickdaysofficial]

A Quick PSA

If you can’t add a readmore to your submission, because you’re on mobile or tumblr is being awful or you just don’t know how, I will add one for you. All text posts are given readmores for navigability, so if a submission comes in without one, I add it.

If you have a specific point where you’d like me to place the readmore, leave a line with only [READMORE] on it. Otherwise I will put it after the first paragraph.

Obviously, the readmore has to be near the beginning of the story (first few paragraphs preferably) because the point is to make the posts short and easy to scroll through. But I want to give you guys some freedom if you think there’s a point that makes the best teaser/cut-off/whatever. So, yeah. If you can’t put in a readmore, just show me where you want it.

Happy Sickdays! -Mod J

#info #rules

[sickdaysofficial]

Friendly Reminder to Please Put Content Warnings at the Beginning of Submissions!

We get a lot of submissions with triggering content, such as drug/alcohol use, vomit, mental illness, etc. While we do try to add all the appropriate warnings, there’s a reason we ask authors to put in the warnings themselves. You know your writing and story better than we do, you know what’s in it and what it’s about. If you’re not sure whether something is a trigger, but you think it might be, just list it anyway. Safe >>>>>>> Sorry.

Thanks! -Mod J

#info #rules

[sickdaysofficial]

Sickdays May 22: Messy

Submitter: @builder051

Fandom: Spiderverse– Relatively canon Spider-man: Homecoming timeline

Warning: vomit

__________________

“Hey, Mr. Stark,” Peter says as he traipses down the stairs to the lab.  He takes off his backpack and tosses it on the floor beside a filing cabinet.  The resulting collision emits a soft metallic thump, and suddenly Tony’s silhouette goes from leaning over the lab bench to lying flat atop it.

“Mr. Stark?”  Peter jogs the few steps to his mentor’s side.  “What’s wrong?”

Tony lifts one shaking hand and turns his head away.  “Nope. Stop.”

“What?”

“Talking.”

“Ok,” Peter says, then regrets it.

“Fuck, kid…”  Tony shakes his head minutely side to side, then pales. Gulps.

Peter wants to apologize, to ask what’s going on, to offer some help to this situation that’s so clearly wrong…  He lays one hand gently on Tony’s shoulder.  

“Mmph.”  Tony groans.  Then he gags.  

“Um, ok, just–” Peter tries to assist, pointing at the trash bin under the desk.  But Tony’s already turning his swivel chair in the opposite direction, and sick is already on the floor.

“It’s ok, Mr. Stark,” Peter whispers as Tony vomits again, adding to the puddle between his shoes.  He keeps his hand on Tony’s shoulder, trying to ground him through the round of heaves.

When Tony surfaces, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, Peter asks softly, “Do you want me to get somebody?  Do you need, like, medicine?”

“‘S a migraine, kid,” Tony slurs back, his eyes unfocused and squinting.  “Just go home, ok?  And turn the lights off on your way out.”

#sickdays 6 #22 may 2020 #submission #whump #illness #migraine #headache #puke #vomit #emeto #emetophilia #tw vomit #marvel #mcu #peter parker #tony stark #builder051

[sickdaysofficial]

Sick Days 2020, Day Six: Messy

Submitter: @simplysickness

I’m too tired to come up with a creative title lol. 

Anyway, after my heavy piece in my last sumbission, I decided to steer a little clear of my gaming team (Empire or Spartans, actually)

I was given a challenge by a friend to boost my creativity. Make characters based on current favorite songs. And boy I think I delivered. 

Here we have a band. Swift Midnight, They’re an alternative group (think Ch//a//se Atl//an//tic or so). 

Aelius has a record of being in bed certain days due to mental health (this is not a mental piece i promise!). Cayden is the dad of the group. Damon is also very protective, kind of a mom honestly, and Cayden’s best friend boyfriend. And Hendrix is Aelius’s best friend. They’re all extremely close and love each other a lot (in some ways more than others).

tws for emeto, headaches, fever, and tiny implications of depression? (a few sentences, non graphic, not really even outright saying it)

-

“Where’s Aelius?” Hendrix asked, his voice soft. 

They were stopped at the moment. At a station to fill up the bus before they headed to Seattle from Phoenix. 

The silence came out of curiosity. While Aelius was definitely not the most social of Swift Midnight, he’s always at least made an appearence to his bandmates before one in the afternoon, whether to hang out with them or to assure he wasn’t dead. 

“Maybe he’s not doing well,” Cayden shrugged, “After what happened in Dallas, who could blame him?”

“That’s fair,” Damon said, resting his arm on Cayden’s shoulder, “He’ll be fine, we know him well enough. He’ll be out at some point. Maybe stick around, you know how he gets.”

“Yeah, yeah you’re right,” Hendrix commented.

“Anyone up for some games?” Damon suggested.

“I’m in,” Cayden said, “Henry, why don’t you join us, take your mind off things.”

Hendrix glanced back toward the sealed passage, biting his lip. But he nodded. 

“Yeah, fine,” Hendrix commented, sighing softly.

-

It would’ve been normal. Normal for him to stay here, curled up, staring at the ceiling inches above his head until his mind simply drifted into daydreaming or he fell asleep. It was common. 

But instead, he couldn’t get out of bed for a different reason.

His head was swimming, disconnected in a way not in line with his issues. He felt achey and cold.

Staring at the ceiling for a while did nothing. He sighed softly and reached over, going to grab his phone. 

As he unlocked it, his vision blurred slightly. But it came back soon after, clearing as though nothing happened. 

He spent some time scrolling through his phone. Looking at photos on his social medias, scrolling through recent news headlines. He spent some time there, liking a few things, commenting, even reposting some stuff on his story. But his vision went again, becoming hazy and unfocused. So he opted to attempt to sleep.

 As he pulled the sheets closer to his body and rolled over, his stomach went with him, the organ feeling as though it was shifting over. Before it gurgled slightly.

He whimpered softly. He couldn’t be getting sick. Not yet, not now.

He just needed to sleep. That’s it. A little more sleep, then get out of bed and grab something to nibble on.

But the thought of food makes a new feeling come over him, a sick feeling that makes his body feel suddenly warm.

He pushed a sheet off, keeping the others close. He just needed to sleep, then he would be okay.

His stomach didn’t agree.

-

By time he comes to again, he really cant tell how long it’s been.

Aelius really didn’t know. Had it been an hour? Two? Not even that long? Longer?

So many thoughts tried to drag him back to his senses as he reached over toward the shelf at the end, grabbing his watch.

He tried to check the time, but it was useless. His vision was too unfocused to make any sense out of the bright squiggles. 

His head began aching, a pounding sensation in his skull. He placed his fingers to his temples, wincing at the feeling of sweat and heat on his skin.

This couldn’t be happening. 

He took a deep breath, laying back down and closing his eyes, his head overwhelmed with a wave of vertigo, making him feel like he was spinning.

He felt horrible. Absolutely awful. 

Breathing didn’t help. It made his stomach start to churn, the organ bubbling and turning over.

He swallowed against a thickness in his throat, a bitter taste resting in the back. 

He laid there, laid still, hoping the nausea would go away. Hoping the longer he laid, completely still, his stomach would calm down. 

His mouth felt sticky. Like he had something in his mouth he needed to spit out. The stickiness tasted bitter and acidic. Aelius tried to swallow it back.

Mid-swallow, Aelius felt air creep up his throat. A wet burp made its way up his throat now.

No, no, god no…

Aelius moaned. Why couldn’t his body leave him alone? Let him sleep this off or something.

More saliva pooled in his mouth, Aelius was surprised he didn’t choke. Another burp, this one even wetter. 

He couldn’t fight it anymore.

He slid his way out of the bunk, but vertigo overtook him as soon as his feet touched the ground, sending him to his knees.

The force of falling sends hot liquid up Aelius’s throat, spilling his stomach on the floor between the beds. 

He couldn’t move now, he retched again and more came out of him, that wave bringing more vomit to collect on the floor. 

As he heaves again, he’s even more dizzy, and feels so weak. He couldn’t hold himself up anymore. Another wave comes up, nearly sending him forward. 

“Aelius-”

There’s a voice behind him. And suddenly there’s hands holding his shoulders, keeping him up.

He feels so weak now, mentally and physically. 

As Aelius heaved again, he felt warm wetness on his cheeks.

“Oh no,” The same voice speaks gently to him, “Aelius, darling…”

There’s a gentle hand on his cheek, wiping away the tears. 

“Hen… Henry…” Aelius mumbled, swallowing back more thick substance. 

Already, his vision starts to briefly refocus, revealing Cayden is in here too, setting paper towels on the ground, hands covered by latex gloves, ready to clean.

Aelius moaned softly, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw, trying to stop from making more of a mess. He’s already made enough of one.

But Cayden is prepared, taking a bin from the side, probably held by Damon, before another set of hands starts gathering his hair.

The bin is placed in front of Aelius, and the guitarist heaved into the bin.

A few more retches, slowly becoming less and less productive. 

Then, dry heaving, half an hours worth of trying to make something come up that wasn’t there. And then it was over.

For a moment, Aelius closed his eyes.

“Aelius, just breathe,” Damon instructed, now running his hands through Aelius’s hair.

And Aelius does, catching his breath. Someone wiped his mouth with a paper towel, slightly damp with something cold.

Aelius melted to the chill, and a few moments later something cold was dabbing across his forehead.

A faint laugh beside him, “It’s in your hair dumbass.”

It’s Hendrix, he knows that. But Hendrix isn’t being mean, he knows that too. 

In fact, he felt pieces of his hair pulled away, returned damp and cold.

Cayden wiped up the floor, tossing all the paper towels into the trash. 

“I’ll bleach it in a little,” Cayden said.

The other three shifted around, gathering things here and there. 

Aelius really couldn’t move in the moment. Too weak, too shaky, and too humiliated by the mess.

Someone helped him swap his shirt, but by some miracle his sweats were saved in the ordeal. 

“Let’s move…” Hendrix said. 

It’s only them, as Aelius opened his eyes he could see it was only them. 

“Let’s move out to the front lounge,” Hendrix said, “Okay? Cayden can finish here, you can rest.”

Aelius doesn’t have the energy to argue.

Really, he realizes as Hendrix moved him to the couch before sliding to one side, he doesn’t have any energy at all.

Hendrix guided Aelius’s head back, resting it on his lap.

Aelius melted to the affection, closing his eyes not long after laying back, the light of outside and in the bus making his head ache.

“With luck it’s a twenty four hour bug,” Damon said, “Just rest, we’ll fight the fight of putting anything in you later.”

Hendrix gathered Aelius’s hair out from beneath his head, running his fingers through it.

“Get some sleep,” is the last thing Aelius remembers hearing, before falling asleep to the touch in his hair. 

#sickdays 6 #22 may 2020 #submission #whump #illness #fever #headache #emeto #emetophilia #puke #vomit #tw vomit #simplysickness

[sickdaysofficial]

Sickdays May 22

Prompt : Messy

Submitter: @mohini-musing​

Chasing Ghosts ‘verse (Modern Captain America AU)

Warnings: alcohol, vomiting

She’s never been the poster child. Not the cute little woebegone creature in the foster agency ads. Not the smiling success story in the recruitment material for the continuation of care program. She’s in the apartment because it was this or the streets. She’s been there and done that and it’s definitely not a thing she wants to repeat. A caseworker shows up once a month, swallows all her lies and fake smiles. There’s vodka under the sink. There are pills in the backs of every drawer because she’s always prepared for someone to find her stash. So there are lots of stashes.

James wants her to come and live with him and Steve. She’ll have to keep the apartment, let it look like she’s still living there. Not that it’s hard. She won’t have to leave things out or stage dishes in the sink. Her workers always comment on how immaculately tidy it is. She’s never had the heart to tell them that untidy is inconceivable. She has to be ready to pack up and not leave anything important behind. That’s impossible if stuff is strewn everywhere.

Tasha doesn’t do messy. At least, she half laughs to herself, not in the grand scheme of things. The empty bottles in the bin say that might be a tiny bit of a lie, but she’s not up for thinking too hard on that. She told him yes, of course. Living alone sucks, and she’s well aware that she is terrified of losing him again. Still, it’s scary. Knowing that this little place she’s carved out in the world for herself is not for keeping. So she numbs it down, just a bit. Just too much.

She’s passed the line between drunk enough for a nice, sound sleep and drunk enough to be damn sick. No matter, she learned how to take care of that before she grew tits.

A hand braced against the toilet seat, two fingers pressing down at the juncture of tongue and throat, and her sins are splashing into the water below. Bright green midori, sticky sweet going down and coming up, interspersed with vodka that stings the tiny cuts in her soft palate from fingernails that should have been filed before she purged.

Little drops of green on the toilet seat, wiped away with a strip of toilet paper. She still feels unsettled, her stomach swirling in uneven circles within her body. Swooping up toward her mouth and then down again, never quite strong enough to escape but not easing off enough to be ignored, either.

She fills the little plastic tumbler at the sink, chokes down the contents, and tries bending over double just to see if she can manage this without resorting to forcing matters. Her vision swims, but a couple mild heaves are all she gets.

Her cell buzzes in her back pocket. Probably James checking in on her. She put him off earlier saying she has work to knock out for classes. He didn’t buy it, never does, but he won’t push too hard. She grabs the little bit of tech, reads the screen, and sends back absolute bullshit about turning in for the night soon.

I’ll be up if you need me.

Of course he will. He’s been coming to rescue her for months now. Her gorge rises again and she drops the phone to the mat in front of the tub, gripping the edge of the toilet and jamming her hand fully into her mouth, three fingers in the tight space at the back of her soft palate. The choking sensation is both scary and soothing, and then there’s sticky green flowing over her hand, dripping from her lips. That little bit of pressure is enough to remind her body what it needs and she tugs her hand free just in time for wave after wave of greenish liquid to splash into the bowl.

Once it’s all up, she rinses her lips under the tap, washes hands with the floral scented soap by the sink, and flings cool water into her own face until the heat fades from her forehead and neck. Strips out of the shirt that feels sticky with sick sweat and stumbles down the hall to her bed, dropping her shorts to the floor before curling up under the covers in her underthings. Sleep comes quickly, and with it absolution.

#sickdays 6 #22 may 2020 #submission #whump #illness #emeto #emetophilia #puke #vomit #tw vomit #tw alcohol #tw addiction #mohini-musing #marvel #mcu #natasha romanoff

[sickdaysofficial]

(totally posted this on the wrong blog because it was 3am and I suck. Whoops)

Sickdays 6, Day 6: Messy

Submitter: @lickstynine​

Character: my OC Kit

A/N: was originally just gonna do blood for “red,” but then realized I could make a blood version and a puke version and do it for this, so, wheeee.

Warnings: blood, vomit

Keep reading

#sickdays 6 #22 may 2020 #submission #art #whump #illness #coughing #puke #vomit #emeto #emetophilia #tw vomit #tw blood #puking blood #coughing up blood #lickstynine

[sickdaysofficial]

May 21

Prompt: Noisy

Submitter: @mohini-musing

Fandom: Chasing Ghosts ’ verse - MCU AU

Warnings : migraine, vomiting

It’s four in the morning. Tasha is asleep in her room. Steve is snoring away in theirs. And James? James is trailing a hand along the wall for balance on his way to the hall bath. The migraine that woke him up an hour ago has ratcheted up to full blast and he’s not capable of being quiet enough to not wake Steve any longer. Lights and faint dizziness gave way quite a while ago to enthusiastic gongs in the deeper regions of his brain. That would have been mostly tolerable had it not come with the sensation of his stomach trying to crawl up his throat.

Steve is sure to bitch tomorrow about him not going to the en suite, to remind him for the thousandth time that he doesn’t mind taking care of him. Maybe he doesn’t. But James sure as hell does. Being short most of an arm means he has to rely on Steve for more than any normal partner ought to. Adding nursemaid to the list of titles is something he’d rather avoid, at least in the middle of the night.

He makes it to the toilet before his stomach finishes its upward climb, spitting into the water once he’s finished and hoping he’s far enough from the sleeping occupants of the other rooms to avoid company. The lights are back, streaking across what’s left of his vision in violent starbursts. This doesn’t happen often, but when it does it kicks his ass every time.

The dark room helps. The cold toilet seat he rests his face against is more comfort than it ought to be. It was too late for abortive meds before he woke up, so that’s not worth the effort of even trying. He stays there, breathing as slowly as possible and swallowing hard to avoid another round of heaving. When he’s fairly certain he’s safe for the near future, he pushes slowly to his feet.

The house is dark, and the very idea of lights makes him want to claw his own eyes out. So a hand on the wall it is. The little nightlights he laughed at Steve for installing in the hallway see like halogen brights when he looks to far below him. He closes his eyes to try to stop the spinning sensation the light brings on, but then he stumbles over his own feet and crashes into the coat tree in the front hall.

It’s far enough into spring that the thing is mostly empty save for a couple light fuzzies Tasha lives in year round. They don’t exactly muffle the sound of the thing hitting the floor. He’s heard quieter explosions.

His brain swirls with color and seems to simultaneously contract and try to grow three sizes larger. If he wasn’t already on the floor, he definitely would be now, as his empty stomach lurches upward with a gag that rings in his ears.

Footsteps.

“The fuck?”

Tasha flips on the light, and he curls in on himself, trying desperately to block out the searing brightness. He must have made some sort of whimper, because the light’s gone a moment later and she’s pressing to his cheeks.

“Drunk or sick?” she asks.

“Migraine,” he manages to sputter before he gags emptily.

“Glorious. C’mon, let’s stash you in the bathroom.”

He wants to tell her he just made it out of there. But then he remembers that the bathroom is cool, and dark, and he lets her tug him to his feet. Her hands cover his ears when more footsteps sound on the floorboards. He hears a partially muffled admonition for Steve to go back to bed and stay put before he’s ushered into the bathroom and unceremoniously shoved onto the bathmat. Tasha slips a rolled-up towel under his head. The sink runs for a moment and then there is a cold cloth covering his eyes.

“M’babysitting your ass now,” she tells him.

“I can stay on my own,” he offers.

“You lost a fight with a coat tree.”

“Mmmhmm,” he concedes.

She doesn’t say anything further, and another cool cloth is wrapped around the back of his neck. He breathes slowly, feels the reassuring presence of her body next to his in the small space, and hopes to anything given to mercy that he can ride this out now. He’d rather not admit it, but if someone’s going to babysit him, he’d rather it be her.

#sickdays 6 #21 may 2020 #submission #whump #illness #migraine #puke #vomit #emeto #emetophilia #tw vomit #james barnes #mohini-musing

[sickdaysofficial]

Sickdays May 21: Noisy

Submitter: @builder051

Fandom: Whoa Bessie ‘verse, set during Ignite your bones (Modern Captain America AU)

Warnings: mentions of medical procedures, mental health

___________________

James slides his tray along the counter toward the register, his head in the clouds and his hand faintly trembling.  

“Morning,” Darcy greets him warmly, pushing a curl behind her ear.  She glances at James’s tray, then back to his face.  “You know you actually have to buy something in order for me to check you out.”

“Oh.”  Embarrassment brings a flush to his cheeks.  James glances around for something he wants, which he suddenly realizes is nothing.  He narrows his search to an item within arm’s reach, and settles on a bottle of orange juice.  It’s organic and ungodly priced, but at least it’ll get him out of a tight spot.

“Want me to crack the lid?” Darcy asks after he fumbles a wad of cash out of and back into his pocket.

“Sure.”  As much as James likes her, he’s anxious to get out of line.  Maybe get out of the cafeteria all together.  

Darcy removes the bottle cap, then replaces the beverage on James’s tray.  “Thanks,” he grunts, not looking up.

“Sure, anytime.”

He takes off at a clip, but has to slow almost immediately.  Balancing the sweating bottle on the large, flat surface between his hands feels like holding a bowling pin on the tip of his finger.  Juggling a sword on his palm.  Something like that.  Precarious.  Dangerous.  And definitely making him the center of attention.

James peers through the shadow of hair that’s fallen across his eyes, glancing around accusatorially at the other folks enjoying breakfast in the VA’s cafe.  Are they staring at him?  Staring like they used to when he came back from Walter Reed with a tube in his nose because he couldn’t eat?

The tray tips to one side, and James’s heart flutters as he lifts his elbow and tries to right it.  The juice bottle wobbles onto one edge.  “Fuck,” he mumbles, looking for the nearest place to set it all down, to be done with it.  If he’s lucky, maybe he can just walk away.

He’s not lucky, though.  The closest table is a half-step too far, and James trips on the way to it.  The tray makes it onto the polished formica, but the bottle rolls over the edge and shatters on the floor. Half a second later, James’s knee comes into contact with the underside of the chair, and both he and it go tumbling.

James feels each and every set of eyes alight on him.  If they weren’t looking at him before, they certainly are now.  

James swears again, but this time only in his head.  His breath is caught in his throat, and he isn’t sure he’ll ever pull one in again.  He’s glad his hair obscures his face so he can’t look around and see the extent of the scene he’s caused.  

His body trembles all over, but James knows he has to get out of there.  Fight or flight still works, or in his case, fight and flight.  Because there’s no choice about it; he has to fight his way out before he can flee.  

James takes two shaky steps backward, still hunched over, until he finds ground that’s not glass-ridden or wet.  Then he wraps his arm around himself and jogs toward the door, with his chin tucked to his chest.  

“Are you ok?” he can hear Darcy calling after him, but James doesn’t stop.  There won’t be breakfast for him today.  No therapy.  Nothing but panic and self-loathing until by some grace of heaven above the trauma decides to blow over.  But for now, James is scared. And he chooses to be it alone.

#sickdays 6 #21 may 2020 #submission #angst #james barnes #builder051 #tw mental health #tw medical mentions

[sickdaysofficial]

Friendly Reminder to Please Put Content Warnings at the Beginning of Submissions!

We get a lot of submissions with triggering content, such as drug/alcohol use, vomit, mental illness, etc. While we do try to add all the appropriate warnings, there’s a reason we ask authors to put in the warnings themselves. You know your writing and story better than we do, you know what’s in it and what it’s about. If you’re not sure whether something is a trigger, but you think it might be, just list it anyway. Safe >>>>>>> Sorry.

Thanks! -Mod J

#info #rules

[sickdaysofficial]

Stuck Between the Heat and a Loud Place

Sickdays 6, Day 5: Noisy

Submitters: @lickstynine and @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak

Characters: J’s Kit and Boo’s Flossie

A note from Lickstynine: this is summer 2019, set a bit before my “oh god” fic. This also features regular Kit, not Christian.

Warnings: vomiting, alcohol use, implied abuse

“Excuse me!”

Kit nearly jumped out of his skin as the lady beside him spoke. He mumbled an apology, quickly moving out of her way. His logical mind knew she’d only raised her voice to be heard over the incessant chatter around them, but he couldn’t help flinching when people yelled at him. He sighed, grabbing his drink and moving to a less crowded area of the room.

Though he’d woken up with a pounding headache, there was no way Kit could stay at home. He had been “invited” by his father to the cricket; Reggie had impressions to make, which meant his attractive, intelligent and generally much more charming son had to show up as well. Not that Kit had even the slightest desire to spend his day in a crowd of other snobs watching a sport he didn’t care about, but at least there was an open bar.

Running his fingers through his hair, Kit leaned against the wall of the box. The confined space only made the voices around him more echo-ey and insufferable. Every time the crowd roared, he felt an agonizing throb behind his eyes. Times like this made him miss his slutty socialite days - even drinking hardly made these parties tolerable anymore. Every overly friendly old lady putting a hand on the small of his back seemed to take a few years off his life. He found himself staring off into the distance, desperately daydreaming of being back home in bed.

“Christian, right?” A girl stopped on her way in from the terrace, looking at him with slightly narrowed eyes. She was the spit of... Well, practically every other woman in here, with her pastel sundress and strappy heels and silly little hat. Definitely the kind of girl who rode a horse and had already planned her wedding down to the typeface on the placecards.

He paused for a second, blinking as his mind returned from whatever dimension it had been lost in. “Er… yes. You can call me Kit, though. Christian is just for formal documents.” Switching his drink to his left hand, he held out the right to shake. The head of an elaborate eastern dragon peeked out of his sleeve, the nose stopping just shy of his knuckles. The older guests always muttered disapprovingly, but he was hoping she was young enough not to care.

She beamed, clapping her hands together sharply, the sound reverberating around his head as she reached for his hand. “Oh, like Marlowe, how marvelous! Although I suppose he was actually a Christopher. Now tell me...” She kept her grip on his hand, turning it so that his cuffs pulled back. “What’s this and where did you have it done?”

“It’s a Chinese dragon, and it’s actually a full sleeve. I got it done at a shop in London, I have my artist’s card somewhere…” Kit relaxed a little bit, always eager to chat about his tattoos. He set his drink on a nearby table, fishing in his pockets until he produced a sleek leather wallet. When she freed his hand, he thumbed through the glossy black credit cards until he found a crisp piece of cardstock with neatly embossed letters. He held it out for her to see, and the name read Charles Porter. “He’s excellent, he’s done all the work I didn’t get overseas.”

The girl’s eyes lit up. “What did you get done abroad? Is any of it authentic or are they tourist tats? Can I see?” She’d leaned back against the door frame, champagne flute dangling delicately from her fingertips. Seeming to catch the potential insinuation of what she’d said, she added: “Only if it’s appropriate of course. For the love of art, you understand.”

Kit chuckled, smiling more genuinely than he had all day. “I do. Er, let’s see… All my Kanji were actually done in Japan. I know the language, I wasn’t just trying to look cool.” he added, holding out his left hand to show her the ones on his knuckles, which of course also revealed the arrow on his middle finger. “And that one’s of course just a fun joke. These,” he ran a finger across his knuckles, “say ‘melted gold,’ this one,” he paused to undo only the top two buttons of his shirt, which revealed most of his phoenix, the sun on his chest, and the Western dragon around his neck. Pointing at the sun, he continued, “just says ‘sun,’ nothing fancy there. There are more on the side of my ribs, but I can’t just start stripping in decent company.”

Completely unfazed, Flossie leaned closer and trailed her fingers over the inked patterns. He shivered slightly, her touch chilling against his warm skin. “Anything traditional?” She asked, peeling his shirt to the side to get a better look. “Irezumi is crazy beautiful, I’ve always wanted to see it. Such a shame that it’s so associated with being a criminal these days...” Pulling back, she grinned. “Sorry, I’ve been told I’m bad with personal space. Thank you darling,” she added as an aside as a waitress refilled her glass.

“I’m afraid not, though I still have a whole empty leg, so it’s not out of the question.” Kit said with a wink. “I get stares in Japan anyway, what with the red hair and all.” He grabbed his own drink back off the table, taking a sip. The deep amber whiskey seemed to match the colour of his eyes, and they both flashed as a partygoer walked between him and the light. He wasn’t sure if it was his fifth or sixth, but who cared? He wasn’t driving home.

“Yes,” Flossie said thoughtfully. “Yes, I imagine you do.” She lifted the champagne to her lips, taking a sip. As it was supposed to, it tasted vaguely yeasty, and she fought back a grimace. If she was honest, she far preferred prosecco. “What else have you got? You must have had some other stuff done on your travels…”

“I’ve got these roses around my waist that I got in France. The phoenix was done in Greece. There’s a sun and stars on my hip that I got in…” Kit paused, tapping his nails on his glass as he wracked his brain. “Bollocks, where did I get that?” He took another drink, clearly frustrated with himself. “Ah well, it’s not life and death. I’ve got a date on my wrist that I got done in Ireland, and the dragon around my neck was done by an amazing artist in Norway.”

“Very cool,” she agreed, reaching up again and twisting his neck so that she could see the rest of the dragon. “It’s gorgeous! The linework is spectacular”

Kit startled when she touched him, but he didn’t pull away. His cheeks turned a bit red, and he smiled, “Ah, thank you. My dragons are probably my favourites.” He took another sip of his scotch, and saw the girl narrowing her eyes at him again.

“How are you on liquor already?” She chided. “I would be half dead before they broke for tea if I tried that!”

“Years of practice,” he smiled wryly. “But really, I need it to put up with my father. Have you had the pleasure of meeting him?” he asked, the word ‘pleasure’ heavy with sarcasm.

“Oh, Daddy introduced me to him when we arrived but it was brief,” Flossie laughed.

“Lucky you.” Kit smirked, taking another drink before he added, “Forgive me, my memory is dreadful. Who is your father?”

Flossie sighed, rolling her eyes. “Arthur Devereaux-Blythe? You might have heard your father talking about him in relation to this new property tax bill that Parliament are discussing.”

Kit mirrored her heavy sigh. “Heard about it? That’s half the reason Father is here.” He shook his head disdainfully, draining his glass.

“Yes, we did think that maybe it was why we’d been invited,” Flossie said wryly. “Daddy will be livid if he has to talk about it today though, he simply adores cricket.”

“Really?” Kit scrunched his nose disdainfully before adding, “I’d best intercept my father then, before he says something particularly tactless.” He glanced at the densest part of the crowd, not eager to dive back into the depths of the party. There were far too many people to see Reginald from his distance, but he could hear his father from across the room. The booming, arrogant tone was unmistakable. He nearly stepped away before asking, “Can I meet you back here in a moment? Good company is hard to find at events like these.”

“Of course,” she nodded vigorously. “I may go and sit on the terrace though, it’s so loud in here.”

“I’ll see you there, then.” Kit smiled and disappeared into the crowd.

It ended up being far more than a moment before Kit retreated to the terrace. After squeezing through the crowd, he’d had to wait nearly ten minutes to actually get his father’s attention, and it took ten more to suffer through their conversation. Reggie had drank far more than Kit already, and he was never a master of tact. Coaching him through what to say and when to say it was exhausting, and talking to him was always laborious for Kit.

Even in public, where he knew he wouldn’t be hurt, Kit felt his skin crawl when in close quarters with Reggie. His father’s booming baritone drilled into his head as they spoke, and by the time he was able to leave, he felt like he’d run an emotional marathon. He grabbed another whiskey before finally escaping the crowd, shoving through the door with a heavy sigh.

Though the quieter atmosphere outside was a massive relief, Kit couldn’t help grimacing at the wave of heat that hit him. It wasn’t particularly warm, but his blazer and button-up felt stifling all of a sudden. His gaze eventually zeroed in on the girl from earlier, and he walked over.

“How is the game going? That’s not small talk, I legitimately don’t know the rules enough to tell.”

She looked up at him, her brow furrowing as he slumped into the seat next to her. "You look awful," she said bluntly. "Do you want one of the girls to get you some water?"

Kit paused, not having expected genuine concern. “Oh, um… I’m alright, I think. Just need a break from the crowd.” He said, taking a long swig of his whiskey.

"If you say so." Flossie shrugged and turned back to the game. "As to who's winning… It's pretty hard to tell yet, we're only on the second day. But England haven't had a batting collapse yet, so that's promising at least." She gazed thoughtfully at the players. "And, of course, Lords is the hardest ground to play on as a visitor."

"Of course," Kit mumbled, squinting at the scoreboard. He wondered if he needed new glasses - it was still blurry despite his best efforts. Luckily, he didn’t actually care about the sport at all. He drank again before changing the subject. “You know, I’ve been doing most of the talking. You ought to tell me a bit about yourself. Do you have any interesting tattoos?”

“What, me? No,” Flossie said distractedly leaning forwards for a better look. “Ohhh, I think he’s going to - Yes!” She jumped up, cheering as the ball soared over the boundary. “Go on Jack!” She shouted, clapping her hands together.

The sound reverberated in Kit's head like an explosion, and he winced. The heat felt more oppressive than ever, and when he took another drink, it seemed to burn more than usual. He sighed, fanning his face and shielding his eyes.

Flossie sat back down, smoothing her skirt down primly. “Well, that was quite enough excitement for one day,” she joked, turning towards Kit. The colour was high in his cheeks, and while it was a sunny day, there was something about it that made him look distinctly unwell. “Do you want to go and sit inside? You’re looking flushed…”

He shook his head, but the movement felt like his brain was rattling in his skull. "No, it's too loud inside. I'd rather stay out here, chance a breeze." Suddenly, the crowd roared again, and he grimaced. "Not that it's terribly quiet out here…"

“Ahhh,” Flossie nodded, understanding quickly. “Headache?”

Kit nodded slightly. "Been killing me all day, but I couldn't just stay home," he sighed, fanning his face again. The sun felt like it was searing his skin, being absorbed by his hair, baking his body through his clothes. He thought he might melt. Even just the clink of nearby glasses was violently loud, piercing through the oppressive heat to make him wince.

“Here, take these.” Flossie pulled a pair of big, round sunglasses out of her bag and pushed them into his hand. “The sun can’t be helping.” She looked at him in concern, biting her lip. It was clear from the slow, controlled rise and fall of his chest, and the deepening crease in his forehead, that he was in considerable pain. “How bad is it?” She asked softly, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Do you want to get out of here?”

"Please, yeah…" Kit sighed, draining his glass and putting on the shades she'd offered. The large sunglasses looked ridiculous on his face. He now resembled every other posh woman at the cricket, at least from the neck up, and Flossie couldn't help giggling. He gratefully took the hand she held out, pulling himself up.

Standing was a mistake. A sudden and brutal wave of vertigo hit him, and Kit stumbled, nearly dragging Flossie down with him. He instinctively grabbed the railing to keep from hitting the ground, leaning on it as he slowly stood back up.

"Sorry… just a touch dizzy. Didn't mean to startle you," he mumbled. His words were wobbly, lacking the effortless friendliness of their earlier talk.

“Woahh, okay,” Flossie muttered, looping her arm around his waist. “If you put your arm over my shoulders then you can lean on me without it being too obvious. No need for a scene that way, just laugh a bit at whatever I say as we go through and we’ll be out of here in no time.”

Kit managed to force a grateful smile, putting his arm around her as instructed. "Thank you… sorry to ruin your afternoon." He was warm to the touch as he leaned on her, still perilously unsteady on his feet.

“Not to worry,” she whispered. “There’s only so long one can watch a man throw a ball at another man, even if said ball is going ninety miles an hour.” She looped her bag around her wrist, and began to guide him up the steps back into the box. They stopped near the door, and she let go of Kit for a second as she bent down to speak to one of the men seated there. “We’re just going for a smoke Daddy,” she chirped with a smile plastered across her face. “Jack is playing well today, don’t you think? It’s lovely to see.”

Kit swayed. He could hardly see straight anymore, and the noise coming from inside the box was like a jackhammer in his skull. The vertigo became brutal again, and his face went ghastly white. He tapped subtly on Flossie's hand, not daring to open his mouth.

“Yes Daddy, I will be back in time for elevenses, don’t worry,” she insisted, a peal of laughter rippling out of her as she extricated herself from the conversation. With her hand on the small of his back, she could feel Kit trembling through his suit jacket. Smoothly, she tucked herself back under his arm, all but dragging him up the last few steps and marching towards the door, chattering inanely the whole way.

Kit leaned against her, praying his legs wouldn't give out beneath him. He swallowed a small hiccup, taking a shuddery breath before he asked, "Do you know how far the loo is?"

Flossie peered at his face, blowing out a sigh of frustration. “You could have told me you were going to puke,” she groused, pausing in the doorway. “Ummm, the gents are...just on the right here.”

"Sorry," Kit mumbled again, feeling a flutter of guilt in his chest. He tried to explain himself, but all he managed to get out was "...really sudden," before he hiccuped again and clamped a hand over his mouth.

“God, you’re going to regret all that whisky,” Flossie said sympathetically, leading him down the hallway. “In approximately three minutes I reckon. Just hold on, if you’re sick out here they’ll kick you out.”

Kit nodded. He knew better than to make a mess in public. Legs still wobbling, he stumbled hastily into the men's room, falling to his knees in front of the toilet. He barely had time to lean over the bowl before coughing up a huge gush of whiskey and bile. Despite the abundance of food in the box, he hadn't actually eaten, which wasn't helping him at all now.

“Don’t forget to close the cubicle,” Flossie called to him through the main door. “I’m going to go and find you a bottle of water. Maybe rustle up some painkillers. I’ll be outside when you’re done.”

He heard the click of her heels disappearing back the way they’d come. Even just the echo of his own labored breathing was overwhelmingly loud. His head felt like it was in a vice grip, and it took several moments of fumbling before he managed to close the cubicle door. He turned back around just in time to spew again, clutching the edge of the toilet seat as he continued to cough and retch. The whiskey burned coming up, and he grimaced, sniffling and sputtering even after it tapered off.

When he heaved again, spots swam in his vision. His head was still pounding, and his body seemed to shift beneath him. His vision went completely black for a brief second, and his head smacked roughly into the seat. Kit groaned, barely able to sling an arm across the toilet to rest his head on. Despite the proper air conditioning in the bathroom, he still felt stiflingly hot. He couldn't hear anything beyond the blood thumping in his ears, and didn't even notice when Flossie came back with water.

Flossie stood outside the men’s bathroom and waited. Resisting the urge to press her ear against the door, she strained to hear anything from inside - anything at all. At least, she supposed, he wasn’t throwing up anymore. But as two minutes rolled into five minutes, and five minutes rolled into ten, a feeling of unease began to coil in her gut. He’d looked… Well, he’d looked absolutely horrific when she’d last seen him. What if he was in trouble?

Steeling herself, she opened the door and marched in, hoping that no-one saw. Her father would kill her if she was caught in the toilets with a man again. As she glanced around, she realised with relief that only one cubicle was occupied - and she could see the scuffed black soles of Kit’s dress shoes through the gap under the door.

“Kit?” She called out softly. When she received no reply, she stepped up to the door, jiggling the lock expertly until it clicked open.

Surprisingly, even the sound of the door opening behind him didn't catch Kit's attention. He was slouched against the toilet, which was still full of pure whiskey puke. His hair was falling over his shoulders, but miraculously hadn't quite made it into the bowl. The air conditioning had actually started to make him shiver, but his face was still flushed and slick with sweat. Though he'd buttoned his shirt back up, the tattoos beneath were visible now that the thin white fabric was soaked and plastered to his chest.

“Oh sweetie…,” Flossie breathed, crouching down next to him straight away and gathering his long hair into a loose bun at the base of his neck. He turned a little, his unfocused gaze wavering on her face. Tentatively, she stroked the hair back off his forehead. “Migraine?”

Kit managed the tiniest shake of his head. "Think 'm sick…" he rasped, voice completely shot from throwing up.

“Who gets sick in the middle of summer?” Flossie asked incredulously. Kit winced at the pitch of her voice, and she bit her lip. “Sorry, sorry,” she whispered. “What can I do to help? Do you think you’re done in here? Shall I get your dad?”

Kit felt his heart pound in his chest at the mere suggestion. He hastily shook his head, which only sent a fresh, fierce wave of vertigo washing over him. "No! No, don't." Forcing himself to sit up, he took a long, wobbly breath. "'m done… I'm... I'm so sorry, I'm sure this isn't how you'd meant to spend your day." He mumbled, genuine remorse in his hoarse apology.

“Aw no don’t...don’t worry about it,” Flossie protested, watching him closely. He’d gone a pasty, grey colour and his Adam’s apple was bobbing erratically in his throat. For as much as he claimed to have finished vomiting, she wasn’t sure she trusted his judgement. “Seriously, what can I do? I’ve got some paracetamol if you think you can stomach it.”

"Probably not right now," Kit admitted, a telling waver in his voice. His eyes were shadowed, and his shoulders jerked with a sudden, sharp hiccup. "Excuse me…" he mumbled, instinctively covering his mouth.

"Yeah, okay, take your time." Flossie shifted to sit on her knees, one hand still on Kit's back. She could feel the burning through the fine fabric of his shirt. Hearing voices in the corridor, she coaxed the cubicle door shut behind her just in case. "I have some water when you're ready."

"That might be a min-ute," he said quietly, a hiccup catching in his words. His stomach was doing somersaults inside him, and he leaned back over the toilet, not daring to make a mess. The sour smell in the bowl did nothing to help his state, and he suddenly gagged, a small choking sound that preceded a gush of watery vomit. Flossie clicked her tongue, holding his hair back for him. Wrinkling her nose, she reached for the flush, just as two sets of feet entered the bathroom.

Just the thought of being overhead was humiliating, but as he recognized the heavy stomp and commanding voice outside the cubicle, Kit felt his heart stop. An icy rush of panic flooded his veins, and he heaved.

"Shhhh," Flossie hissed at him. "They'll hear."

Kit fought hard to swallow the subsequent gag, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. He could hear his father yammering about that stupid bill, which meant he could only be talking to one person - Flossie's dad. Just the fucking luck. Forcefully swallowing down another retch, he could only pray that Reggie would keep Arthur distracted until they left.

“...and you know it’s really quite clear that it would be hugely beneficial to…”

Bits of conversation floated across the room, over the tinkling sounds of liquid hitting porcelain. Kit closed his eyes, breathing deeply.

“...as I’m sure you’ll understand, as a sensible man yourself…”

He cringed. He was sure his father was trying to be subtle, but he was about as subtle as an elephant in a field of sheep.

“Well, we’ll have to see. Once all the evidence is put forwards…”

That was Arthur’s voice now, placating but non-committal.

“Oh but you know what they’re like, these university types, economists, sociologists, whatever. Can’t trust any of them, can you?”

That was Reggie again, blundering onwards with his usual blind swagger.

“I’m afraid, Reginald, that if you invited me here to twist my ear on this, then you’re barking completely up the wrong tree.” There was the sharp sound of a zipper being pulled up, and the tap began to run. “I thought I was here for some bloody good cricket. And I don’t appreciate being bribed.”

"No, no, it's not like that!" It obviously was, but Reggie was trying to save face, or at least avoid Arthur voting against his preference on sheer spite. "I just thought this might be a good place to talk. It's not a bribe, I would've had you here either way."

Kit had to choke back a derisive snort. He'd seen his father working away at a desk he hadn't touched in years, his two brain cells desperately rubbing together as he compiled a list of people to invite. The sound of a second zipper and footsteps made him go silent again as the two men stepped away from the urinals.

“Excellent,” Arthur said pointedly, the calm before the storm lingering in his voice. “Glad to have sorted that out. I’ll see you back in there then.” The door swung shut behind him.

There was a horrible pregnant pause as the door slammed shut. Reggie hadn't left yet - his thundering footsteps were impossible to miss. Kit's heart leapt to his throat - it felt like his father could sense his fear, zeroing in on a target to take out his newfound frustration. Illness aside, he felt nauseous from the sheer anxiety of it all. He was near a heart attack when the heavy door slammed again, Reggie's signature stomp disappearing down the hall.

Kit nearly deflated with relief, slumping down with a weak groan. That stress had been more than he could handle right now, and in the wake of it, he felt worse than ever. He was shaking badly, and his head throbbed with every rapid thump of his heart. His face was still pale, the distinctive discomfort of nausea twisting his pretty features, but he wasn't sure there was anything left in him to throw up.

Flossie was scrutinising him, looking him over like he was an overdue library book that she had yet to start reading. She took a breath in, opening her mouth to speak, but then seemed to think better of it. Instead, she rummaged in her bag and retrieved a chilled bottle of water and a packet of gum. “You look dreadful,” she said, not unkindly.

Kit chuckled weakly, taking the gum and water with a grateful smile. "Thanks. I feel it." Swilling out his mouth, he spat the soured water into the toilet and finally flushed, taking a few slow sips from the bottle. Even the swirl of water sounded like thunder, and he grimaced, leaning away from the toilet. "Seriously, though. Thank you. I owe you a proper afternoon to make up for this one," he said.

Flossie grinned. “Yeah, okay. We can discuss that when you’re not literally dying on the bathroom floor,” she teased him. “Look, do you feel up for moving? My legs are going numb.”

"Oh. Er, I can get up. Sorry." Kit managed to climb to his feet, leaning on the cubicle wall to steady himself. He wasn't eager to return to the box, especially knowing the mood his father would be in. Anxiety washed over him and he fanned his face nervously. Flossie still watched him shrewdly, with eyes that saw altogether too much.

“Listen,” she said, “one of my friends is working here as a hostess and she says there’s an empty box at the end of the row. It’s not much, but you can lie down in the quiet under the fan if you want.”

Kit perked up at that, some life sparking back into his zombie-ish face. "Really? That would be wonderful." The idea of not having to return to a hot, crowded box with his angry father was clearly relieving.

"Yeah," Flossie agreed. She slid an arm around his waist. "Come on, we can go really slowly. Do you need to go and show your face in our box first?"

"I probably should, yeah." Kit sighed, putting his arm around her as well.

"I thought so," she said ruefully, pressing her hand gently into the small of his back. "Let's try to make you presentable first then."

Kit nodded, "I'm sure I look terrible," he admitted. The burgundy mascara he'd been wearing had started to run, and he was still sweaty and disheveled. Looking in the mirror over the bathroom sink, he cringed. "I don't suppose you have makeup wipes?"

Flossie rummaged in her bag but came up empty handed. "They'll have some in the steward's office though I'm sure, just a sec…"

"I've got a comb. I'll fix my hair in the meantime." Kit said, producing the comb from a pocket of his coat. His hand hit something else in the process and he paused. "Oh! You probably want these back." He pulled out her sunglasses.

"Ah, cheers!" She took them from him, slipping them into a pocket in her handbag as she swept out.

Kit managed a smile, turning back to the mirror to fuss with his hair. It took quite a bit of effort to get it smoothed back out, and it took him ages to unstick his shirt to his body and make himself somewhat presentable again. The only thing that still looked too offensive was his mascara, but he stepped out of the bathroom to save Flossie the embarrassment of going back into the men's.

Flossie smiled brightly at him, all perfect teeth and bouncing curls as she came down the corridor. She handed him a small packet of makeup wipes, then proceeded to fuss with his hair and his collar and his cuffs while he tidied his face. “So if one of the ladies comments on your eyes I’d recommend you tell them you’re worried that your girlfriend will leave you. Or something like that. If it’s a man then… I don’t know. Nadal just lost his game against Federer, so just say something like that and brush it off.” She stepped back, looking him up and down. She nodded to herself. “If you’re not out in five minutes then I’m going to come in and drag you away. You’re too sick to deal with whatever scandal your father may have cooked up. If you need me sooner then order a beer and I’ll know to come and rescue you.”

Kit grasped her hands gratefully, giving her a very genuine smile. "Thank you so much." He paused, trailing off as he thought for a moment. "Christ alive, I'm afraid I've forgotten your name." He admitted, ducking his head shamefully.

“Oh, I probably forgot to tell you,” Flossie laughed, rolling her eyes. “Nye says it’s a problem I have where I just assume people know who I am and what I’m talking about… I’m Flossie.”

"And what is that short for?" Kit asked, smiling and meeting her eyes again.

“Ugh, Florence,” she scoffed. “Where I was conceived.”

Kit couldn't help snickering. "If it makes you feel better, my full name is just a disorganized family tree. I've got like six middle names, and they're all great-great-grand-somebody."

“That old chestnut,” Florence joked, linking her arm through Kit’s and tugging him towards their box. “I’m forever grateful that Mummy didn’t let Daddy name me after Great-granny Mabel.”

Kit cringed. "Ooh, yeah, that's definitely worse." He was a bit steadier now as she led him back to the box, but he didn't look excited. "Alright, wish me luck." Smiling at her, he disappeared inside.

To Flossie's relief, she didn't see a beer go by, and several minutes later, Kit came trudging back out of the box. He didn't look happy, but he was still conscious, and he leaned against the railing with a sigh, rubbing his temple. "God, it's miserable in there. Do you want to actually go out for a smoke? I could use one." He offered.

“If you’re sure,” she agreed, watching him uncertainly. She could see his hands shaking even from a slight distance. “Okay, yes. But then I really think you need to rest.”

"I will. I just need to unwind first. Don't think whiskey would help much right now." Kit forced a chuckle, but the humour from earlier no longer lit his eyes. He took Flossie's hand, and they walked together towards the gates. She was silent as they navigated the crowds and as they passed security. It was only once they’d found a section of wall to lean against and lit their cigarettes that she spoke.

“Are you going to be okay going home with him tonight?”

Kit froze, unlit cigarette in his mouth and lighter in hand. He realized quickly that he was acting odd, and lit the cigarette, taking a puff before asking, "What do you mean?"

“I think it’s pretty clear what I mean. Are you going to be okay?” Flossie repeated, taking a long drag on her cigarette. She looked away from him, focusing on a random point across the street.

"I'll be fine. I don't have to stay with him. I usually stay with my cousin or my girlfriend when he's home." Kit said, rubbing his thumb nervously against the rose ring on his finger.

Flossie pressed on. “And the drive? I assume you’ll be leaving together, if only for appearances sake.”

"The most difficult part of that will be getting him in the car upright." Kit scoffed. "He makes me look like a lightweight. Half the bar tab is probably his fault."

“Sexy,” Flossie remarked drily. She was quiet for a spell, and then: “What did he do to you?”

It took all of Kit's self-control not to choke on his cigarette. Normally, he was better at keeping his composure (and normally, no one at these parties gave two shits about his well-being), but he was already in a state and not doing a great job of regulating his emotions. He took a long drag before saying, "He's an insufferable prick. I don't like being yelled at." Neither of those were lies.

Flossie chewed her lip thoughtfully, and then shook her head. “No, that’s not it.” She sucked on her cigarette, blowing out a smooth stream of smoke. “You freeze up every time he’s mentioned, you flinched earlier when we had to walk past him. The sound of his footsteps literally made you throw up - and don’t pretend I’m wrong about that. It’s not just that he’s a prick.”

"He's got a temper," Kit replied flatly. He was staring into the distance away from her, a shameful flush colouring his cheeks. It was slowly spreading up to his hairline, creeping down towards his chest and onto his ears. His hand was shaky as he lifted the cigarette back to his lips.

Flossie nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I’d believe that.” She leant back against the wall, gazing at Kit with much the same expression she’d had when she’d found him draped over the toilet earlier. “Does he...does he hurt you?” She asked tentatively.

"No." Kit couldn't fight the vibrant redness growing in his face. He felt like a fool - he'd performed on the bloody West End, and yet he couldn't tell a convincing lie to a borderline stranger. Some actor he was. He snuffed out the cigarette between his fingers. "I'm ready to lie down now."

Flossie sighed, stubbing her own cigarette out, and then wrapped her arms around him in a fierce hug. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “That was unfair of me. I’ll not pry anymore. But you’re a fucking terrible actor.”

Kit nearly had a heart attack when she grabbed him, but he relaxed after a half second. He managed to force a smile, asking, "Would you be shocked to know I am one?"

"Quite frankly, I do not see it being a lucrative career for you," she teased, dropping her chin to his shoulder.

Kit snorted. "Well, luckily, money isn't an issue. But I'm serious. Hold on, I have photos from the last show." He went fishing in his pockets, eventually producing an iPhone 6 that clearly needed a software update. Unlocking it, he thumbed through his photos until finding a picture of him in a fancy nineteenth-century suit, beside a pretty blonde girl and a man in a half-mask. "Phantom of the Opera. I was Raoul."

Flossie covered her mouth with her hands, stifling a giggle. "Oh my god. A play or the musical? Oh my god, did you have to do that bit in Think of Me? Oh my God."

"The musical," Kit didn't seem bothered by her giggles. He was actually smiling. "We didn't leave anything out. It's not like the West End puts on a half-arsed production."

"As in, the Phantom of the Opera? That's been running for thirty-four years?!"

"Well, yes. Did you really not believe me until now?" Kit couldn't help grinning.

“Obviously not,” Flossie exclaimed. “Everyone and their dog at my school thought they were going to be the next Eddie Redmayne and they’re all investment bankers now.” She wrinkled her nose. “Boring fuckers.”

Kit laughed. "I didn't actually do theatre in school. I was way too shy. I got into it recently. My girlfriend's younger brother has been doing it for ages, and she finally goaded me into trying out a while back."

“That’s pretty cool,” Flossie admitted. She threaded her arm through his and they began to walk back to the entrance. “My… Nye is really into musicals, he drags me to see them whenever they tour to Cardiff.”

"Perhaps I'll see you in the audience then," Kit winked. His mood seemed to have lifted, but he still wasn't steady on his feet. Even just the short walk left him winded, and he was leaning on Flossie more heavily again.

“Definitely let me know!” She agreed, nodding enthusiastically. She could feel his weight pressing down on her shoulder, and she gripped his arm more tightly as they began to climb the stairs to the boxes.

Kit smiled, "I'll have to get your number, then. Not that that's a bad thing. It's truly rare to find a decent person at my father's parties." He had to stop halfway up the stairs, trying to steady himself. "Sorry, just need a breath…"

“Did you just call me a decent person?!” Flossie glared, fiery with mock outrage. “How very dare you! I have a what-I-call reputation to maintain.”

Though he missed her reference, Kit still gave a winded chuckle. "Oh, do forgive me, miss." He bowed as a joke, but it nearly pitched him over. Flossie caught his shoulder, pulling him upright.

“You’re an idiot,” she scolded lightly. “How’s the head?”

"Bit better actually. I'm more woozy than achey now." Kit said. "I probably should've listened to you and laid down earlier," he added sheepishly.

“I find things always end better when people do as I say,” she replied, a mischievous glint in her eye. She gestured up the steps. “Shall we?”

Kit nodded, latching his free hand firmly onto the railing. He was determined not to send them both careening down the stairs. While he did succeed in not falling, it was a slow and laborious trek, and he was nearly wheezing again when they reached the empty box.

“Come on in and lie down,” Flossie encouraged. “You won’t be disturbed here.” She’d snagged her dress coat off its hook as they’d gone past their box, and she handed it to him. “I thought you might like a blanket.”

"Are you sure? I don't want to wrinkle your coat…" Kit fussed. He sank down on the floor with a sigh, leaning against the wall. Despite cleaning up, he still looked pretty sorry, pale, glassy-eyed, and wobbly.

Flossie waved a careless hand, crossing her legs on the floor next to him. “Just try not to make a mess if you’re sick again, and we’ll be grand. Now lie down.” She poked his shoulder. “Oh wait, no,” she corrected herself. “Have some water first. And some paracetamol. And then lie down. We still have six hours here or something.”

Kit groaned. "Six hours? I feel like I've been here six years…" He took the coat from her, cozying up inside it. Even with it, he was shivering again, but the undisturbed air of the empty box was far better than the stifling heat of a crowd.

“Hmmm,” Flossie hummed noncommittally, reaching a hand for his forehead. “God, you’re boiling,” she muttered. “Please have some water.”

The chill of her fingers on his face made Kit shiver. He took the bottle obediently, but the sips he took were small. It felt like if he dared take a proper drink, it would come right back up.

“Little bit more,” Flossie coaxed him, shifting next to him to rub his back gently. “You’ll be okay.”

Kit hesitated, but took a few more sips. His stomach sloshed uncomfortably, and he forced a swallow. He leaned against Flossie's shoulder, his skin burning hot against hers.

“Okay, come on then, lie down.” She stretched her legs out in front of her, guiding his head into her lap. “You’ll feel better with some rest.”

"I can only hope." Kit mumbled, his eyes already heavy with exhaustion. He swallowed again, shifting slightly in an attempt to get more comfortable. Flossie stroked her hand comfortingly down his back, ignoring the sweaty moistness of the shirt.

Kit sighed contentedly, relaxing against her. It didn't take long before his breathing grew steady, and eventually, he was snoring into her skirt.

#sickdays 6 #21 may 2020 #submission #whump #illness #emeto #emetophilia #puke #vomit #tw vomit #tw alcohol #tw abuse mention #fever #headache #lickstynine #its-a-goddamn-heartbreak

[sickdaysofficial]

Day 4 - Oh God

This is a collab between myself ( @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak​ )and @emetoandotherthings​ , featuring her Damian and my Nate. Hope you enjoy :)

Warning: vomit

Damian inserted the key card into the slot at the door handle, mumbling a little to himself when it flashed red - denying him entry. He reshuffled the bag in his hand to get better access and tried again. This time it flashed green, and he heard the click of the lock. Dragging his suitcase behind him, he struggled into the room; noticing straight away that the bed closest the window already had a suitcase open on it. But apart from that, the room was empty.

“Hello?” He called out. “Is anybody here?”

He heard a toilet flush in the ensuite bathroom, and the running of a tap, before a tall boy with a shock of white blonde hair poked his head out of the door.

“Hi!” The stranger smiled widely, striding across the room and holding out his hand. “I’m Nate, it’s nice to meet you!”

Damian had paused for a second, the white blonde hair and height of the boy reminding him instantly of Cain. Then he came back to himself, taking his hand and shaking it.

“I’m Damian,” he replied, shaking that thought of recognition out of his head as he contemplated the size of Nate.

“I already picked a bed,” Nate said apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck. “I hope you don’t mind… I wanted a headstart on unpacking.”

“No, no! That’s fine with me!” Damian replied, hoisting his own suitcase onto the end of the empty bed. “Are you - am I right in thinking, Welsh?”

“And proud!” Nate grinned. “Especially since this year’s grand slam. And you’re a Scot, right?”

“Correct,” Damian nodded, pulling out his shoes from the top of his case and stashing them at the end of his bed. “So, rugby?”

“Well, you know…,” Nate said sheepishly, “it’s sort of in the blood where I’m from. I’ll probably have to stop playing soon though.”

“Why?” Damian asked, then bit his lip, wondering if that was too pushy a question for someone who’d only just met him. “Sorry.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” Nate sat down on his own bed, crossing his legs. “It’s just a huge time commitment, so it probably won’t fit in around placements. And I ruptured a kidney last year, and I can’t really risk that kind of injury if I’m serious about being a doctor. All it would take is a concussion or a broken finger to mess things up for me.” He smiled, a soft, sad, resigned smile. “Anyway, yeah. Where does your interest in sports medicine come from?”

“Oh… ow,” Damian winced as he heard about Nate’s injuries. “I’ve done parkour for years, and the injuries in that aren’t your typical ‘sports’ injuries, if you get me?”

Nate cocked his head to one side. “I’m not sure I do, but I guess I’ll hear all about it over this week?” He checked his watch. “Speaking of, I think we should get going for the first session.”

“Yeah,” Damian checked his own watch, grabbed the lanyard that he’d been given and slung it around his neck. “What group are you in?”

Nate checked his ID card. “Group C,” he replied. “You?”

“The same!” Damian replied, seeing the C underneath his name. “At least if we get lost, we’ll both be lost!”

“Ah, that’s great,” Nate exclaimed, closing the door behind him. They walked through the hotel together, until finally they reached the meeting room for their first session. The chairs were all in a circle, and Damian and Nate picked two seats next to each other to sit down in. There were already a few other people in the room - a lady in a suit, who looked like she might be in charge, a boy near the door with dreadlocks, and a girl on the other side of the room who had her head down on her fold out desk.

“You think she’s found the bar already?” Damian nudged Nate, indicating towards her.

Nate glanced over, taking in the tense line of her shoulders and the way her arms were wrapped around her stomach. “Looks that way, yeah,” he responded, reaching down to pull a notebook out of his bag. “Hopefully the icebreakers today aren’t too vigorous.”

“It’ll be ‘two truths and a lie’, or something like that,” Damian muttered, thinking back to ice breakers they’d done at Scouts and other conferences.

“As long as it’s not 'The Sun Shines On’,” Nate commented with a wry smile, “or like, make an animal noise to go with your name, then it’s fine.”

“Well, that’s easy,” Damian said quickly, “I’m obviously a dog.” He grinned widely.

Nate raised an eyebrow. “Dirty,” he remarked. “Hold onto your wives and lock up your daughters.”

“Welcome everyone,” the lady with the suit interrupted them, more people had trickled in, taking seats in the circle. “This is the introductory session, so hopefully by the end of this hour you’ll know each other slightly better, and we can get on with all the learning and challenges we have during this conference.”

“Really don’t see how knowing what colour socks everyone’s wearing is going to help us discussing TBIs if I’m honest,” Nate muttered under his breath, as the lady shuffled through her papers.

“Especially if they’re odd,” Damian said, leaning back in his chair. The girl who was directly across from him in the circle had raised her head at last, she was pale and tired looking. .

Nate chuckled. “Exactly,” he agreed.

The lady in the suit stood up. “Alright, to start off, I want you to get into pairs -” Nate and Damian caught each others eyes. Nate held out his fist under the table, and Damian bumped it gently. “ - and you’ll have five minutes to tell your partner your educational journey and to learn theirs before we share with the group.”

There was a lot of shuffling around the room as people moved closer to their partners. Nate looked up and frowned, seeing the girl he’d assumed was hungover still sitting by herself, staring blankly into the middle distance.

“Why on earth would you choose this exercise if you had an odd number of people?” He exclaimed.

“Incompetence?” Damian suggested, then he felt slightly bad about it. “Maybe we should go with her?”

Nate nodded. “She looks like she could use some support today,” he remarked as he stood up. He walked over and held out his hand. “Hi, I’m Nate. We were wondering if you’d like to join our group?”

“Uum…” Her voice was soft and weak, she looked around, slightly blank as though she hadn’t quite realised what was going on. “Yeah, thank you.”

“Alright,” Nate said encouragingly, “why don’t you take your stuff over to Damian, and I’ll bring your chair?”

“Uh, thanks…” She nodded, clutching at her handbag and carrying it across. “Hi…” She said as she reached where Damian was sitting. He stood to greet her, reaching to shake her hand.

“Hey, I’m Damian.”

“Hi,” she responded, still a little quietly. “I’m Leila.” She shook his hand, then shook her head minutely. “Sorry, I’m quite tired…”

“That’s alright,” he replied, smiling brightly. Nate joined them with the extra chair, and they all took their seats. “This shouldn’t be too strenuous - and then maybe you can go and have a nap or something.”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Do you two know each other?”

Damian glanced over at Nate. “Not really - we’re sharing a room though, so by the end we’ll either be best of friends or hate each other’s guts…”

“Ah, okay,” she said, she seemed to be sitting almost deflated in her chair, like every movement caused her lots of effort. Their attention was pulled again as the lady in the suit began to give instructions.

“So, I want you to each be able to present your partner’s educational journey to the group. Who they are, how they got here, why they came here, what they want to gain from this experience. I’ll be generous - I’ll give you six minutes to prepare!”

“Great,” Damian rubbed his hands together. “Who wants to start?”

Both Nate and Leila looked dubious, but Nate shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll give it a go!”

It hadn’t seemed long enough to get all the information to tell everyone else - and getting anything out of Leila was like drawing blood from a stone. Each group was taking it in turns to introduce their partners, and they all clapped politely once they had finished. Damian and Nate gave their presentations fairly easily, keeping all the information to a bare minimum. Finally, it was Leila’s turn to introduce Nate. She was the last in the room, so all eyes were on her instead of hastily scribbling more information down in notebooks, and when she stood up she seemed even paler than she had before.

“She really doesn’t look well,” Nate murmured to Damian.

“I -” She started then paused momentarily. “This is…” She stopped again, taking a slow deep breath in.

“You’re right,” Damian agreed, watching her carefully. “Her hands are shaking.”

“I…” She couldn’t seem to get her words out and everyone looking at her only seemed to exacerbate the situation. She swallowed visibly. “I - excuse me!”

Her face had gone from pale white to a sickly green, and she clamped her hand across her mouth as she bolted out of the room.

Nate cursed, suddenly feeling very guilty for making fun of her behind her back, and stood up abruptly. “I’ll go and check on her,” he announced to no-one in particular, before gathering up her stuff and striding out after her. He assumed she wouldn’t be coming back. Damian bit his lip; he looked around the rest of the room, hoping that the lady in charge would start speaking again.

It was over half an hour before Nate returned. The games had resumed gradually, and they were discussing their hopes and goals for the conference when Nate slipped back in and sank down next to Damian. He opened up his notebook and began clicking his pen like a nervous tic.

Waiting until he could ensure that he wasn’t going to be picked up on, Damian nudged Nate and said: “You okay?”

“What?” Nate looked up at him in confusion. “Yeah I’m fine. Just didn’t think bedside manner would be something I’d be practicing this week…” He trailed off, smiling weakly.

“Is she…?” He started to ask, then noticing a stern glance from the lady, he tried to whisper out the corner of his mouth. “Not drunk then?”

Nate shook his head minutely. “Definitely not,” he whispered back, keeping half an eye on the lady in charge. “I think probably norovirus actually, she ticks all the boxes. And she’s on an A&E rotation at the moment.”

“Oh…” Damian muttered. “That’s a bit not good…”

“I know,” Nate sighed, rubbing his face as he leaned back in his seat. “I washed my hands and everything, but it’s so infectious.”

“I think I’ve got antibacterial gel in my bag, would you like some of that?” Damian offered, his hand reaching down to where his backpack was.

“Nah,” Nate waved one hand towards him, “I’ve used some already. I’ll probably be fine, but I’ve been really excited about this for a while now.”

After the session finished, they went to lunch, and once the actual content of the conference started, both boys forgot all about it. The venue was beautiful, the food was good, and the talks were all fascinating; as they walked between lectures they picked apart what they’d learned in the one before, completely engrossed.

“I’d never really thought you could go from sports medicine to cardiology,” Damian said, he was leaning on the rail of their small balcony, which looked out over a lake, which they’d all been warned about swimming in. “Like now that makes sense, but it’d just never came into my mind.”

“Yeah, it’s fascinating,” Nate agreed. “I’m more excited for the lecture after dinner though.”

“What’s that again?” Damian asked, he rubbed his hand across his face. It felt like so much information that he was juggling about in his brain, and he was hoping that the gluten free option for dinner would be just as good as the lunch had been.

“Uhhh, something to do with concussions and TBIs,” Nate mused. “I don’t know exactly.” He sat down heavily on a stool on the deck, the excitement of the day hitting him in a wave of exhaustion. “Man, I’m wiped.”

“I know,” Damian paused in his note correcting. “It’s pretty full on, isn’t it?”

Nate nodded. “You can say that again. How long is it til dinner?”

“Twenty minutes,” Damian consulted the small timetable folded into the back of his lanyard. “Though if we want a decent table, we might need to get there early.”

Nate groaned, tipping his head back against the wall. “I was hoping I could have a nap,” he complained.

“Power nap?” Damian suggested. “I could wake you up in 15 minutes or so?”

“Would you?” Nate said hopefully. “That’s really kind of you…” He stood up slowly, stretching out the ache from hours of travelling and sitting in a chair, and trudged into the room, collapsing face first on top of his covers.

“Course,” Damian replied. He perched on the edge of the chair on the balcony, re-reading over the notes he’d taken. It hadn’t really been his idea to come to this conference in the first place, sports medicine wasn’t exactly where he thought he’d end up - but it was a lot more informative than he had realised. He crossed the room to put his notebook down, noticing that Nate was already asleep; people who could instantly fall asleep were always of interest to Damian, as that was something he was incapable of. He sat down on his own bed, scrolling through Facebook as he whiled away the time before dinner.

When the clock started creeping towards the time that dinner started, Damian stashed his phone away, and went to wake Nate.

“Nate?” He said, then gently placed his hand onto Nate’s shoulder.

“Mmmnnn,” Nate moaned, burrowing deeper into his pillow. “What?” He was sore from rugby and heavy with exhaustion, and he had that twisty feeling in his stomach that comes with sleeping too short.

“Sorry,” Damian said, “I can leave you sleeping if you want?”

Nate nodded drowsily. “Can you wake me up for the lecture?” He slurred out, looking blearily up at Damian.

“Course, do you want me to bring you anything to eat?” He asked.

Nate shook his head, already curling back into his pillow. He didn’t feel hungry at all - in fact, the idea of food was almost unappealing.

“Okay, sleep well,” Damian said, picking up his lanyard and key card so he could get back in after dinner and, as quietly as he could, left the room.

When Nate woke up an hour later though, he was feeling even worse. Napping often left him feeling disoriented and a little bit grim, but the way he swayed dizzily when he finally managed to stand up wasn’t normal. Clumsily, he took a gulp of water and stumbled through to the bathroom hoping that if he freshened up he’d feel a bit more human.

Damian fumbled with his key, managing to get it right in the lock and entering the room; he spotted Nate’s empty bed, and wondering whether he might be out on the balcony getting some fresh air, he called: “Nate?”

“Gis a minute,” Nate called weakly from the ensuite. After splashing some water on his face, he’d intended to go back to the room, but he’d started feeling light-headed and ended up sitting on the toilet seat with his head between his knees as he waited for it to pass. He thought maybe he was a bit dehydrated - it had been quite a warm day.

“You okay?” Damian called, feeling a little like he was prying into Nate’s business, and he’d only known him since this morning.

Nate sighed, standing up cautiously and going to meet Damian. He plastered a grin onto his face as he opened the door. “Yeah, I’m good,” he exclaimed, injecting more enthusiasm into his voice than he felt. He grabbed his water bottle off his bedside table, and nodded to Damian. “Let’s go?”

“Great,” Damian retrieved his notebook and wallet that he was using to keep all his documents in order, and headed out of the room with Nate to the lecture hall. It seemed much quieter than the earlier talks had been, and looking around, Damian commented: “You think everyone else has decided to go to the bar instead?”

Nate slumped into a seat near the back and yawned widely. “Maybe they’ve just all decided to go to bed,” he suggested. “I wouldn’t blame them.”

“Yeah, that too…” Damian nodded; over the next five minutes there was a trickle of people entering the hall and sitting down. The gaps at the front seemed obvious because of the few people there. “I hope they don’t make us move down the front…” He muttered.

“Nah, I doubt it,” Nate responded. He’d hunkered down in his seat, arms crossed over his broad chest. “It’s not like we’re at school anymore.”

“Good evening!” The gentleman who’d stepped up from one of the front seats was massive; his shoulders were so wide that he probably could have blocked out the projector he was using. Even Nate, who wasn’t small, would look so next to this guy.

“God, I wouldn’t want to face him on the rugby field!” Damian mumbled, pulling the lid off his pen and biting it between his teeth. Nate sniggered in agreement, clicking his own pen open as the man started to talk.

They were about twenty minute in when he began to think that something might actually be wrong. Although he could hear Damian’s pen scratching across the page frantically, he couldn’t focus enough on the words to pull out anything worth writing down. What’s more, the queasy exhaustion he’d felt on waking up had done more than just linger. He palmed his belly surreptitiously, hoping to ease the growing discontent.

His lethargy had not gone unnoticed by Damian, who was trying to take down notes, even of things he didn’t quite understand - better to write them down, he thought. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Nate, his pen resting on the edge of his lip; he was quite pale, probably down to tiredness, Damian felt that creeping exhaustion from having been travelling so early to arrive.

Nate drained the last of his water out of his bottle, but when it did nothing to either wake him up or settle his stomach he had to stifle a groan of frustration. He’d been so interested in this lecture that missing it because he’d not paced himself was gutting. Giving up, he put his pen down and set his phone to record.

When Nate laid his phone down and slid slightly down in his seat, Damian frowned. Scribbling on the edge of his paper he wrote 'you okay?’, then pushed it over to Nate’s line of sight. Nate blew out a sigh, shrugging a little.

'Don’t feel great tbh’ he wrote back, quickly folding his arms once more around his belly as soon as he’d pushed the paper onto Damian’s part of the desk.

'Do you want to go just now?’ Damian pushed the paper back at him, noting as he did so, that there were beads of sweat on Nate’s temples.

Nate shook his head. Now that he’d acknowledged it, he felt horrific to the point where he didn’t trust himself to get back to the room by himself. He just wanted to sit and rest for a bit, wait for his stomach to settle. He hunched forwards, feeling miserable. Damian bit his lip; he checked his watch, there was only another twenty minutes of the lecture left, hopefully Nate would last that out - then he’d be able to go back to his bed. He watched Nate’s eyes slipped closed as the boy took a shuddering breath.

Damian slipped his hand inside his bag, pulling out his water bottle and placing it carefully onto Nate’s desk. He was definitely beginning to look a little green around the gills, and for the first time, Damian remembered Leila from that morning. Gently, he tapped Nate on the shoulder. “If you need to leave,” he reassured him quietly, “I’ll make sure I bring your stuff. No point sitting here for the sake of pride.” Nate seemed to pause, trying to summon up the energy to move, then he gave a tiny nod of the head. Damian moved his knees so his passage would be easier, and he watched him leave the lecture hall - no one else even turned a head as he went.

Nate breathed a sigh of relief as the door of the lecture hall closed behind him. His knees were wobbly, and he leaned against the wall until the worst of the wooziness passed. He pressed one hand experimentally against his belly to try to alleviate the cramping pain that had taken up residence, but the movement made his stomach lurch threateningly. He traipsed down the hall until he reached the lift and then paused - he couldn’t muster the energy to climb all the stairs to their room, but even the thought of the lift made the bottom of his stomach drop out. Reluctantly, he pressed the call button, slumping down onto the stairs as he waited.

Damian was tapping the edge of his pen against his notebook, only stopping when he saw a girl along the row giving him an askance glance. There were only a few minutes left of the lecture, but he couldn’t get how pale Nate had been out of his head. He began surreptitiously dropping his things into his bag, so he’d be able to leave as soon as they were finished. Silently, he collected Nate’s things into one bag, even remembering to shut off the dictaphone app on his mobile, and then sat impatiently for the lecture to end. He was probably the first out of the door when the lecturer stopped speaking, everyone else was still packing their things up - he hoped he didn’t seem rude rushing out, but he wanted to check on how Nate was.

Nate was almost asleep when he heard the lift ping - and the distant chatter of the lecture hall emptying out. He hauled himself upright with a groan and staggered into the lift, punching the button for his floor as someone else came rushing down the corridor. The doors were just closing when a small man slipped through the doors, he was slightly breathless and he smiled across at Nate.

“Thought I was gonna miss that!” He panted, leaning against the wall of the lift; then stretching across to press the button for the fourth floor.

Nate smiled tightly, his knuckles white where he gripped the railing. He swallowed hard at the swooping sensation as they began to go up.

“It’s really busy, isn’t it?” The man babbled slightly, smiling at Nate. “Are you enjoying it so far?”

Nate nodded, unsure whether he’d be safe to open his mouth with the way his guts were churning. He didn’t want to be rude so he tried to smile but he was sure it looked more pained than polite. The doors of the lift pinged.

“This is me! See ya ‘round!”

Nate had never felt so thankful as when those doors closed, he slumped against the lift wall, trying to avoid looking at himself in the mirror, unable to tell whether it was the fluorescent lights that made him look so pale. His stomach twisted as he began moving again and he gasped, bending forward to try and lessen the pain. He was gripping onto the rail around the lift so tightly that his fingers were sweaty and slippy, and he was willing the doors to open at his floor. At long last, the lift juddered to a halt, and he stumbled out. He found himself swallowing repeatedly as his stomach lurched, liquid pooling in his mouth. Clapping one hand over his mouth, he broke into a faltering run.

Damian had hoisted his own and Nate’s bag onto his shoulder and began the climb up the stairs. He knew, especially as a medic, that taking the stairs was always the preferable option to the lift, but the fifth floor seemed rather far away as he counted each flight of stairs to eleven before it turned round on itself and continued for another flight. It seemed to take an age, and when he finally made it to their room he was a little out of breath. He promptly forgot about though, when he pushed open the door to find a dark room, with two clearly empty beds.

“Nate?” He called out softly as he flicked on the light and dumped their bags unceremoniously next to the TV. The strip of window above the bathroom door was illuminated and Damian leant close to the door, trying to listen; then when he heard nothing, he tapped gently on it. “Nate - you alright mate?”

Nate moaned. He’d barely managed to reach the toilet before he’d been choking up mouthful after mouthful of his stomach contents. He wasn’t sure if he could stand anymore. He was almost certainly sure that if he opened his mouth, it would start all over again.

“Nate?” Damian paused one last time, but then he’d made his mind up; he pushed the handle of the door and, finding it wasn’t locked, pushed it open. Nate was crumpled on his knees, both hands clutching the sides of the toilet bowl, and he was grey. “Oh no…”

Nate made a noise somewhere halfway between a grunt and a whimper. “You should ask to move rooms,” he croaked hoarsely. “You don’t want to catch this…”

Ignoring that statement, Damian had strode across the room in two steps, filled one of the small glasses with water and was now running the white hotel flannel under the cold tap. He knelt down next to Nate, placing the water onto the floor, just out of his reach to knock over.

“Yeah… like I’m gonna leave you like this,” Damian scoffed.

Nate closed his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose as pain gripped tightly in his belly. “Wouldn't…oohhhh…blame you…” He insisted. He hauled himself up over the bowl of the toilet again, panting in anticipation as nauseous heat flooded down his neck.

“I think your need is stronger than my self-preservation,” Damian said, then rather unexpectedly he reached out with the flannel and wiped it across Nate’s sweaty brow. “Is there anything I could do to help you feel better?”

“Tha’s nice,” Nate murmured, swallowing hard again. He could feel his heart in his throat, his stomach pushing up behind it. Resigned, he let his mouth hang open, stringy saliva dripping off his bottom lip. “Hnnng,” Nate felt his stomach contract and he jerked so far forwards he nearly bashed his head on the back of the toilet seat. Then he felt a hand being placed on the middle of his back, which began to rub gently across it.

“That’s it,” Damian muttered, still continuing to rub his hand back and forth.

Nate could feel his throat squeezing and his stomach pushing once more: “Hhhhrrrrrrr'kkkkklluuuuurrrrrrhhh!” A wave of liquid vomit hurtled up his oesophagus and he coughed harshly. It burned in his throat, the acid stinging his mouth, but his lips felt numb as he struggled for breath. He felt so awful. His whole body was trembling, and he was so nauseous he could barely keep his eyes open.

“Do you want to try a sip of water?” Damian suggested. “It might make your mouth feel better.”

He almost gagged at the thought of putting anything back in his stomach - and then did gag at the tailspin shaking his head sent his stomach into.

“Okay, not yet,” Damian said, using the flannel to wipe across the back of Nate’s neck.

“H'rrrrruuuuuuuaaarrrlllllllggg!” Nate wasn’t sure where it was still coming from - his stomach felt empty, like it’d been wrung out repeatedly. At this rate he wasn’t going to trust himself to leave the bathroom for the rest of the night. Cautiously, he leaned away from the toilet.

“I’ll cool this down again,” Damian indicated to the flannel, leaning up to the sink and rinsing it out. Then he leant across and wiped Nate’s chin and forehead. Nate scooted back toward the wall, his head lolling against his shoulder.

“Thanks,” he muttered weakly. “ ’m sorry about this.”

“Don’t worry at all,” Damian said, “I think you’ve maybe caught what that Leila has…”

“Yeah,” Nate said shortly. Cramp shot through his stomach and he curled around it, forcing himself to take a deep breath. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t. Not here.

“Can I get you anything else?” Damian asked, “I could find out if the hotel has a hot water bottle if you want?”

“You’ve already done so much,” Nate responded. Pulling his knees up to his chest, he buried his face in his arm. He still felt just as bad as he had before being sick, which he was sure wasn’t the way it was supposed to work: his mouth was too wet, and his chest was too tight, and his skin felt stale and sticky all over. “I wanna go home,” he mumbled thickly.

“Um,” Damian bit his lip, “I mean - I’m sure we could figure that out if that’s what you really want…” Damian reached out and touched Nate’s knee cautiously. “You’ll probably feel better when you’ve had a bit of sleep… I imagine you’re feeling pretty grotty right now.”

Nate’s shoulders hitched as he struggled not to sob - for all his efforts he still had to wipe his eyes on his sleeve before he met Damian’s eye. “Yeah,” he replied shakily. “Yeah, you’re prob'ly right.” He paused, one hand palming at his stomach as the nausea reared its ugly head once more. “Ugh, not yet though…” He muttered, his mouth rapidly filling with watery saliva again; he was loathe to move from his current position.

Damian bit his lip, rubbing Nate’s knee reassuringly. “Okay, take your time,” he soothed, shifting off his heels into a more comfortable position. Nate could feel his stomach tightening and then relaxing, but each time his throat seemed to contract along with it; he tried to take long, slow breaths. Damian laid the flannel over the back of Nate’s neck. He could feel the heat coming off him before he even touched his skin, a damp, sweaty haze of fever.

“I - I still feel…” Nate mumbled slowly, swallowing thickly.

“Sick?” Damian said. “Yeah, I can tell…” He squeezed Nate’s knee again, then added: “I could help you to bed then get a bucket for you?”

“I don’t know,” Nate sighed. “Dunno if moving is wise. I just… I don’t know.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. His stomach twitched and he covered his mouth, belching queasily.

“Well, as soon as you’re up for it, you can lean on me…” Damian told him. “I’d offer to carry you, but I’m not sure that would end up well.” Nate shook his head, his fist pressed to his mouth again.

“God, I feel rough,” he groaned, words muffled by his hand, and the tense line of his jaw. His throat contracted again. He jerked forwards, swallowing down a gag.

Damian watched him nervously. “Alright mate?” Nate swallowed again, this time more obviously; Damian shuffled where he was sitting so he could put his hand behind Nate’s back and gently tried to manoeuvre him towards the toilet.

Nate whimpered a little but followed his lead, leaning over the toilet bowl on his elbows. His breathing deepened and he belched gutterally, spitting into the water.

“Uuurrp!” He burped again, his back tensing as he did so, and Damian put his hand again to Nate’s back, gently patting the section in between his shoulderblades. “Blll’’hhhhkk!” A small amount of liquid dropped from Nate’s lips into the water of the toilet. Damian winced. He’d been hoping that it would be a false alarm so that he could get Nate to bed, but it seemed like Nate’s body was determined to purge itself of everything in it before he could rest.

“You’re ok,” he murmured. “Just get it all up.”

“Uuuu’hhlllk! Hrrrrllllkkk! Hmmmlllkk!” Nate struggled, heaving over and over, but only bringing up a tiny amount; his body was still trying to reject even though there wasn’t much left for it to get rid of.

“That’s it, you’re doing really well,” Damian encouraged, reaching over to slick Nate’s hair away from his face. “Just keep trying to breathe, that’ll help.”

Nate sobbed once, a short strangled noise. His gut ached ferociously, but he knew now that the convulsing in his stomach had nothing left to expel. Panting, he let his head hang low between his elbows. Even empty, he could feel viscous saliva in the back of his throat, and he couldn’t prevent himself from retching.

“Hhhrrrrrrrkkkklllkkkk!” The noise sounded painful, and Damian picked up the glass of water he’d placed onto the ground and brought it up to Nate’s lips.

“Here, drink,” he ordered. He took a sip, swilling his mouth out and spitting into the cloudy water. “Little bit more, come on - it’s better to have something in your tummy.”

Nate groaned, but obliged, taking another mouthful of water and swallowing it dutifully. It cleared his throat of all the gunk he thought was there, and he sighed with relief before wincing as it trickled into his upset stomach, which instantly seemed to cramp at the addition of something new in it.

“Mmmmmbllllughh!” It’d barely stayed down more than 30 seconds before his stomach had bounced it back up like a boomerang, but Nate couldn’t deny that it didn’t hurt his throat quite as much on the way up.

“Okay,” Damian comforted. “We’ll have to keep an eye on that…”

Resigned, Nate nodded. He’d put enough IVs into squalling children to know.

“Huh…” Nate coughed slightly, then leant away from the toilet again; his hand moving back to his stomach. He felt something similar to how he would feel at the end of a particularly hard conditioning session - drained and dazed and dehydrated.

“I think the best place for you to be right now, is your bed,” Damian told him.

Nate nodded slowly, his head lolling as if he were dropping off to sleep. He let Damian help him up, moving gingerly when every muscle in his body screamed out in protest. When Damian helped him rinse his mouth out and wiped his face off for him while he clutched onto the sink, he was so miserable that it didn’t even occur to him that he should be embarrassed.

“That’s it, good man,” Damian encouraged, hooking his arm around underneath Nate’s shoulders so he could support his weight. “Okay, just one little step at a time now.”

Eventually, they managed to make their way through to the bedroom. There had been a moment where Nate had stopped, bent double in pain, and it had been touch and go on whether or not he was going to puke again, but he’d been able to keep it together.

“There we go…” Damian lowered Nate down onto the edge of his bed, “and…” He turned round, seized the bin from where it was located and plonked it down on the floor beside Nate’s bed.

“Thanks,” Nate sighed, dropping his head into his hands. Sheepishly, he glanced up at Damian. “Could you, um, maybe…”

“What?” Damian prompted gently.

“Could you get me some clothes from my drawer?” Nate concluded, and Damian was sure that he would have flushed if he weren’t so pale. .

“Course!” Damian moved over to the drawer and opened it. “Do you want anything in particular?”

“I… Just a T-shirt and some boxers please” Nate answered, bending over with a groan to take his shoes off.

“Oh, wait - I’ll do that for you,” Damian said as he heard Nate groan; he grabbed a t-shirt and a pair of boxers and brought them over, placing them on the bed next to Nate before bending down to untie his shoelaces.

“Thanks,” Nate mumbled, his hands unconsciously going back to his middle. “You really… You didn’t need to do any of this.”

“Don’t worry…” Damian shook his head slightly as he pulled Nate’s shoe off. “My best mate, Cain, he catches everything going - I mean, everything… So I’m kinda used to it really.”

“You’re prob'ly going to catch this,” Nate said mournfully, peeling his sodden shirt off over his head. “I am really sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be,” Damian said. “The hazards of this profession, eh?”

“I guess,” Nate replied, and then yawned hugely. “I hope Leila’s okay…”

“At this moment, it’s more about whether you are okay,” Damian said. “Come on, lie down now and get some rest…”

Nate complied. Within minutes, his breathing settled and he was asleep. Damian went back into the small toilet and retrieved the glass from the floor; he washed it, then refilled it and carried it out, placing it on the table next to Nate’s bed. He picked up his notebook and slowly slid the door to the balcony open; sitting down, he opened his notebook to the spot where he’d left off, then returned to sorting out his notes - which had become rather haphazard from the point that Nate had left. Perhaps he’d be able to borrow Nate’s recording to try and make sense of the final bullet points he’d made. He yawned then checked his watch; it was still relatively early, but it had been a long day. Giving up on his resolve to complete his notes, he went back inside, leaving the door a tiny bit open to allow some cool air to get into the room. Moving as stealthily as he could, so as not to disturb Nate, he found his pyjamas and changed into them, then slipped into his own bed.

Damian was roasting. He woke up, aware of the dampness around his face; he was sure he’d left the door a little open, so how was he so warm? He opened his eyes into the darkness, trying to move his face away from the damp patch of sweat on his pillow. It definitely wasn’t time to get up yet. Then it hit him - his stomach cramped and he let out a little moan. It subsided and he took a few deep breaths, before another cramp gripped at him. This one propelled him upright because of its severity.

“Brrruuurrp!” The burp rolled out of him as he’d swung his legs off the bed and the room seem to spin around him, instantly propelling his stomach contents into his mouth, which he clamped a hand across. He wasn’t going to make it to the toilet, he knew that already. Setting his eyes on the bucket he’d left beside Nate’s bed, he almost fell onto the floor, reaching for it and pulling it towards him. “Uurp!” He opened his mouth, the splatter of sick hitting the bottom of the bin, and he had only a few seconds to gasp a breath in before his stomach tensed again. “Hmmmm’bbbbblllluuurrrk!”

“Wha’?” Nate jolted awake to the sound of wet, heavy breathing, a throbbing ache in the back of his skull, and the acidic stench of vomit. He scrabbled on the bedside table to switch on his lamp. The sheets on Damian’s bed were in disarray, but the boy himself was nowhere to be seen. “Damo?” He called out groggily.

“ ‘m - ‘m here…” He managed to choke out before he gulped noisily. “Ugh - hrrr’kkkl!”

“Aw shit.” Nate cleared his throat as he propped himself up on one elbow, peering over the side of his bed to see Damian shaking and sweating on the floor. “You too?”

“Oh, oh god…” Damian groaned, closing his eyes as one hand gripped tight to the edge of the bucket. “Mmmbbblll!” Damian heaved again, spitting out the excess saliva which was pooling in his mouth.

“O-okay,” Nate stammered, finally pulling himself together enough to sit up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He reached down, holding Damian’s shoulder steady as he retched some more. “I know, I know,” he soothed, slipping onto the floor to sit in the small space between Damian and his bed, hoping Damian wouldn’t mind what was essentially a huge invasion of his personal space. “You’re going to be alright though.”

“Uuuughh… Brrrrruuuuuurrp!” Damian belched deeply, his free hand going to his stomach as it lurched. “Oh, my belly…” He groaned, resting his head against the rim of the bucket.

“Come on,” Nate urged, “don’t rest there, it’s grim. C'mere, you can lean on me.” Gently, he wrapped his arm around Damian’s shoulder, drawing him up to rest against his chest.

“Ugh, this is miserable…” Damian mumbled, breathing heavily.

Nate nodded. “What can I do? Is there anything?”

“Can - ulp!” Damian tried to talk, but his gag reflex was in overdrive and he heaved weakly.

Nate snagged the bin, bringing it close enough that Damian wouldn’t have to worry. “Take your time mate.”

Damian shook his head lightly, massaging his hand across his stomach, eliciting another wet burp, which resonated with Nate, who grimaced.

“That sounds rough,” he murmured sympathetically, resting his hand on top of Damian’s. He could feel Damian’s stomach gurgling under his palm.

“Ugh, yeah…” He nodded again, reaching out to grip hold of the bin and pulling it closer to his face. “I can - ugh - feel it…”

“Just try to take some deep breaths,” Nate advised. Absent-mindedly, he rubbed his hand back and forth over Damian’s midriff. “I’ll get you some water in a minute, see if that helps.” Damian had relaxed slightly as Nate’s hand moved gently across his tender flesh, and he was instantly reminded of what his mum used to do when he had a tummy upset when he was a kid.

“Th-thank you,” Damian stammered slightly, shivers running down his spine. Nate was confused for a second, before he realised that he was gently massaging Damian’s belly.

“Oh… I, um,” he stammered. “Is this OK? I just know it sometimes helps me feel better.” He felt his stomach sink - they’d only just met, Damian was going to think he was so weird.

“It’s - it’s what my mum used to do when I was ill as a kid,” Damian muttered slowly, even with the heat from his face, he could distinguish his cheeks turning pink. Nate let out the breath he’d been holding and smiled softly.

“Same here,” he confided. “Would you like some water now? There’s some on my nightstand.”

“Yeah… if you don’t mind?” Damian said, nodding his head.

Nate leaned to the side a little, pulling Damian with him against his chest as he reached for the glass of water that the other boy had left there earlier. Sitting straight again, he held the glass up to Damian’s lips; Damian drank, thirstily, then had to swallow harshly to keep the water down.

“Ugh,” he groaned again, “thanks…”

“You good?” Nate felt Damian’s stomach twitch a little under his hand as he swallowed.

“Mmmm…” Damian hummed weakly, his eyes closed.

Nate leaned his head back against his mattress, closing his own eyes. “Not convincing,” he joked. “Honestly, what can I do to help?”

“Hmmm!” Damian had jerked forwards suddenly, his hand shooting up to clamp across his mouth and for a second it looked like he was about to lose it; but then he lowered his shaking hand, opening his eyes.

Wrapping his arms around Damian’s trembling frame, Nate pulled him into a hug. “Your belly really not settling?” He asked, concerned.

“It - it always gets like this,” Damian spoke quietly, as though trying not to provoke his stomach any further. “Can’t tell when to stop…”

“Okay.” Nate gave Damian a gentle squeeze before letting go. “I’m going to get you into bed - you can take mine so it’s not so far - then we can sit there until you’re ready to sleep, yeah?”

“Hm, okay…” Damian nodded; he was so exhausted that he could have easily fallen asleep on the floor right there. Nate shifted away, standing unsteadily to pull the covers back. He knelt back down. Without him to lean on Damian had slumped back onto the floor, curling up in a ball.

“No, come on, not just yet,” he wheedled, shaking Damian’s shoulder.

“Nnngh…” Damian groaned, but he tried to push himself up on his arms.

Nate saw his face drain of colour, and caught him under his shoulder just before he collapsed back down. “Alright, I’ve got you,” he muttered, slipping his other arm under Damian’s legs and lifting him up as carefully as possible.

“Oh God… sorry,” he slurred slightly, his hand going up to rub at his face.

“S'okay,” Nate chuckled, depositing Damian on the bed. “You get comfy and I’ll go and clean out the bin really quick.”

Damian lay on his side, breathing heavily; he closed his eyes, but that didn’t change the fact that he felt like he’d been run over by a tractor. He heard the bathroom door snick shut and the tap begin to run. He was fighting sleep already, but part of him really thought he should go and check on Nate. It was a relief to him, therefore, when the tap shut off and Nate came padding back through.

“You - you 'right?” Damian mumbled, struggling to get the words past his lips.

“Mmmnn,” Nate groaned, all but collapsing down onto the bed. “Just need to…to sit for a minute.”

“ ’s okay…” Damian reassured, his hand going out and resting on what he presumed was Nate’s knee. “Jus’ relax…”

Nate was breathing heavily, slumped forwards with his head between his knees. “I’m really dizzy,” he admitted. His voice wavered and for the first time that night he sounded a little scared.

“You n'd… need to drink,” Damian tried to instruct him. “And lie down, it’ll help - dizziness.”

Nate nodded, feeling like he was moving through custard. Sluggishly, he readjusted his position, sinking back onto the mattress. It was a strange sensation, his head whirling even though he was staring at the ceiling. He reached over to where Damian was lying. “You okay?”

“Still - might puke…” Damian forced out, his stomach felt like it was on the teacups at the fair, whirling around inside him.

“Crap,” Nate said glumly. “I might be a bit useless. But the…the bin is…” He trailed off, as he struggled to get back up, and the ceiling and the floor refused to stay in the right places.

“It’s fine… might make it to t’ toilet this time…” Damian said, though he wasn’t sure. “Lie still… I don’ want you to fall off…”

“Be careful,” Nate mumbled, collapsing back down. He closed his eyes, trying to make the world stop spinning. “I don’t think I’d be able to lift you if you passed out somewhere…”

“I think… if I jus’ lay here… It’ll all be fine…” Damian mumbled, taking a slow breath in through his nose and out through his mouth.

Nate snorted, reaching back out for Damian’s arm. Neither of them was particularly small, so there wasn’t much space on the bed between them. “Always the optimist…” he murmured. He was so close to sleep, despite the many complaints of his body, but he was still coherent enough to worry about Damian.

“I’ll make it…” He breathed, though he could feel his muscles slowly unwinding. “It’s jus’ nice to lie here…”

“Yeah…” Nate agreed. His limbs were leaden, and he felt himself sinking down further into the mattress with each breath.

“Hmmm!” Damian made a funny noise and Nate felt the bed move slightly. He rolled over, stretching out again to try and find Damian in the darkness. “Oh - oh god…”

Blindly, Nate found Damian’s shoulder, clasping it firmly. Damian had turned away from him, and Nate shifted closer. “Y'okay?” He asked.

“Yeah - yeah…” Damian panted, leaning back a little from the edge of the bed. “Jus’… false alarm.”

“Yeah?” Nate responded gently. “Your stomach still that upset?”

“It jus’ hurts…” Damian mumbled. “Feels like - it’s on a roller coaster or something…”

“I could… Would it help if I gave you a tummy rub?” Nate suggested tentatively.

“Maybe… only if you’re okay with it?” Damian said. He didn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable.

“ ’s not a problem,” Nate insisted, lifting his arm for Damian to lie back under. “C'mere, I’ve got you.”

Damian relaxed back slightly; leaning against Nate was different from being against Cain - where Cain was gangly and bony, Nate was solid and warm and reassuring. Slightly nervously Nate placed his hand over Damian’s midriff, stroking firm circles over the tender flesh. He could feel it bubbling away still, and he felt a huge rush of sympathy for the other boy - even knowing how sick he could get, he’d stayed to take care of Nate when he’d needed him.

“Whew…” Damian let out a sudden rush of air through his teeth, pausing for a second, and Nate felt his stomach tighten under his palm. “Oh shit - mmmmmbbll!” Damian jerked forwards, his hands gripping to the side of the bed. Nate moved quickly after him, bracing his chest so that he didn’t fall off the bed, and patting his back with his other hand. “Oh god… I think - ‘nother false alarm, sorry…”

“Hey, no, it’s okay,” Nate reassured him, helping him back onto the bed. “Maybe I shouldn’t have…”

“No, no!” Damian’s hand went to where Nate’s was. “You’re really helping…”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Damian insisted, “really, really sure…”

Nate nodded, letting loose a jaw-splitting yawn, his whole body shuddering. “Okay I'll… I’ll keep on doing it then…” He trailed off, shifting into a slightly different position. All his limbs felt like lead, exhaustion filling his head like cotton wool.

“Thank you…” Damian mumbled, resting his head down onto the mattress and breathing slowly. Nate’s broad chest was sleepily warm against his back, and his rugby-calloused fingers were massaging away the worst of the pain. Slowly Damian’s breathing turned into slow inhales, and gentle huffs of exhale, as he dropped off to sleep, the cramps in his stomach feeling almost non-existent at the ministrations of Nate.

And if they woke up with Damian drooling on Nate’s chest…no-one else ever needed to find out. But they realised, being roommates when you’re sick pretty much sealed your friendship forever.

#sickdays 6 #20 may 2020 #submission #whump #illness #puke #vomit #emeto #emetophilia #tw vomit #norovirus #emetoandotherthings #its-a-goddamn-heartbreak

[sickdaysofficial]

A Quick PSA

If you can’t add a readmore to your submission, because you’re on mobile or tumblr is being awful or you just don’t know how, I will add one for you. All text posts are given readmores for navigability, so if a submission comes in without one, I add it.

If you have a specific point where you’d like me to place the readmore, leave a line with only [READMORE] on it. Otherwise I will put it after the first paragraph.

Obviously, the readmore has to be near the beginning of the story (first few paragraphs preferably) because the point is to make the posts short and easy to scroll through. But I want to give you guys some freedom if you think there’s a point that makes the best teaser/cut-off/whatever. So, yeah. If you can’t put in a readmore, just show me where you want it.

Happy Sickdays! -Mod J

#info #rules

[sickdaysofficial]

Lidocaine Gel and Sweetened Saline

Sickdays May 20th ~ Oh God

Submitter: @streakfreeshine

Hello everyone. I don’t post stories very often, but I remembered a procedure I had done recently and I realized that it could be a great emeto plot device. I had an “esophageal manometry” performed. The procedure is explained in the story.

These are my own characters. I’ll probably use them again, eventually. Anyway, this is mostly how my experience went, but minus the comforting boyfriend lol

Trigger Warnings; graphic medical procedure, vomiting

     “Based on your symptoms and conditions, I want to do a procedure called an ‘esophageal manometry’.” The doctor said, closing a folder labeled, ‘Dantae McKenna’.

“Okay, what will that do?” Dantae questioned.

“This test will tell us if your esophagus is swallowing correctly. Normally, when you swallow, parts of your esophagus contract, as the food moves downward. Think of your esophagus  a 'Go-Gurt’ tube, but upside down. You pinch the bottom, and slide your fingers down and the yogurt travels down the tube. Now, your fingers would be the muscles. These muscles make sure that food travels down into your stomach after you swallow. Sometimes, something goes wrong and these muscles stop working properly. That what this test is going to determine.”

“How does the procedure go? What do you guys do?” 

“We’ll give you some numbing gel, which will be administered through the nose. Then, we insert a long, flexible catheter, which has a bunch of sensors in it, into your nose and down into the back of your throat. It then gets guided into your esophagus and all the way to the top of your stomach. We will have you swallow some sweetened, slightly thickened water and then the sensors will measure each contraction of the esophagus as it travels downward. We do this a few times and then pull the tube back out. We’ll be able to then read the result and see if anything has gone awry.” 

Dantae’s face had contorted into a slight grimace. The doctor chuckled softly and reassured him.

“Don’t worry, you probably won’t feel anything. The gel will numb your nasal passages and the back of your throat. You might gag, but most people don’t throw up. With that said, You’ll need to begin fasting at 6pm the night before.” 

        All Dantae could manage was a curt nod. He definitely didn’t like the sound of the procedure, but he trusted the doctor enough to take their word. 

The appointment was set for the next day and Dantae returned home to his husband, Ryan. He walked inside, let the door close harder than he meant. Ryan looked over at him, from the couch, started. 

“Oh, hey, you’re home! How’d it go?” Ryan asked, smiling.

“They want to stick a tube down my throat to see if I’m swallowing correctly,” he said. It wasn’t the best explanation. 

“Like an endoscopy?”

“No, way worse.” He said and kicked his shoes off and sat down on the couch with Ryan. 

“I’ll be awake and will have to literally snort a gel laced with lidocaine. They have to shove a tube up my nose!” He exclaimed. Ryan grimaced in a manner similar to the way Dantae had.

“That sounds awful. What if you puke?”

“Doctor said I won’t. She says my nose and throat will be numb, so I won’t feel it.”  He said as he leaned back on Ryan’s chest. He felt sick just thinking about it. 

“The appointment is tomorrow, so I can’t eat after 6pm tonight. I can’t believe they had an appointment for tomorrow. I guess I’m pretty lucky that i don’t have to wait forever for it,” he added and sighed. He wouldn’t admit to anyone that he was a little anxious about the appointment.

“Well, we’d better get you something to eat now, seeing as it’s 5 already”. Ryan said, sliding out from underneath Dantae and standing up. He pulled his husband up to his feet. They left their apartment and grabbed some fast food before coming back home to eat and watch a movie before they went to bed. Dantae read a couple of articles on his phone, about the procedure, before falling asleep.

When Dantae woke up in the morning, he felt a lot less anxious about the procedure. He gently shook Ryan awake before showering, brushing his teeth for far longer than necessary, and getting dressed. By the time he had finished, Ryan was fully awake and ready to leave. 

“You nervous, babe?” Ryan asked when they got into the car. Dantae shook his head firmly. 

“No, actually. I read a few articles about it and it seems like it sounds a lot worse than it feels,” he told him as he put his seat belt on. Ryan grabbed Dantae’s hand after he had backed out of the parking space and pulled out onto the road. The drive to the doctor’s office was short and without much conversation. Dantae got himself checked in when they arrived. They both took a seat in the lobby.

“Hey Ryan?” He asked. Ryan looked up from his phone.

“Yes love?”

“Will you go in with me?” Dantae asked sheepishly. 

“If that’s what you want, then of course I’ll go with you”, Ryan said and leaned over to kiss Dantae’s forehead.

They waited for about 20 minutes before Dantae was called in by a nurse. The nurse took his vitals and lead him to the room where he’d have the test done. She kindly instructed Dantae to sit on the examination bench, while Ryan sat in a chair next to Dantae. 

“The technician will be here in a few minutes for the procedure,” she explained and wished him luck.

True to the nurse’s word, the technician knocked on the door and came in. She introduced herself as “Charlie” and confirmed a few things with Dantae before explaining the procedure to him again. She gave Dantae a disposable paper gown with a plastic lining on the back. He slipped it on backwards, as instructed. 

Charlie put nitrile gloves on and held up a large plastic, needle-less, syringe filled with a clear gel. He figured what it was, but she explained nonetheless.

“Okay, so, to get started, I’m going to squirt some of this lidocaine gel into your nose and I’ll need you to sniff it up strong enough for it to go back into your throat,” Charlie said, as she pulled the cap off the syringe. 

“Like I’m snorting my snot back into my head?” Dantae asked with a mischievous smile. He looked over in time to see Ryan gag and retch soflty, which made Dantae laugh. 

“Dantae, that’s gross,” Ryan retorted and slapped his shoulder playfully. 

“Yes, exactly like that,” Charlie said and joined in the soft laughter. She then held the syringe to Dantae’s nose and pressed the plunger.

“Sniff in,” she instructed. Dantae dutifully obeyed. 

“Great. You did great,” She praised. “Now, we’re going to wait a few minutes for the anesthetic to take effect.” 

The next few minutes were filled with small talk as they all waited. 

“Think you’re ready to begin the insertion?” Charlie asked. Dantae nodded and watched the technician pull the protective plastic wrapper off the tube. He swallowed nervously. It was a lot thicker than the internet articles lead him to believe. It was about 4 millimeters wide and had 36 metal sensors, each spaced one centimeter apart. 

“I’m going to start pushing this into your nose and downward, okay? Tell me if you feel any pain,” Charlie told him. With a small nod from Dantae, she began to push the tube into his nose. The tube made it about 2 inches into his nose before Dantae winced hard and teared up reflexively. 

“Does that hurt?” Charlie asked. 

“A lot,” he replied. She frowned, apologized, and withdrew the tube. 

“Let me give you some more of the lidocaine gel,” she said and held the syringe back up his Dantae’s nose. Dantae dutifully snorted the gel. They waited for another five minutes before trying again. 

“Ow ow ow ow ow!” Dantae exclaimed as the doctor attempted insertion a second time. The doctor looked at him, concerned. 

“Still hurts? Weird. I’ll give you the rest of the anesthetic,” She said softly. He allowed the last of the lidocaine to be squeezed into his nose. 

“Unfortunately, if this doesn’t work, we’ll have to reschedule,” Charlie explained. 

“If this get rescheduled, I’m not gonna show up, so this is all or nothing.” Dantae said, a hint of frustration in his voice. With that, they waited the 5 minutes before trying a third time. 

“Let me know if the pain becomes too much, okay Dantae?” Dantae nodded. He looked over at Ryan, who was watching with a frown. He was clearly upset that Dantae was in pain. Dantae made a kissy face at him. 

       “I’ll be okay, I promise,” he reassured him. Charlie inserted the tube and Dantae bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut, pushing more tears off his eyelashes. She frowned again and stopped. 

“Just keep going, I’ll just deal with it,” Dantae said, through clenched teeth. 

“This is the worst part, okay? After it gets past the the soft pallette of your mouth, it will be smooth sailing,” Charlie told him and pushed the tube further, being very careful not to hurt him.

Dantae breathed as evenly as he possibly could, keeping jaws clenched tight. When the tube met his uvula his breathing hitched and he let out a small strangled sound. Charlie knew, at that point, that there was going to be some trouble.

“Okay Dantae, I’m going to need you to start swallowing,” Charlie told him as she handed him a cup of cool water. He nodded and slipped the straw into his mouth and took a sip. When he swallowed that sip, he immediately gagged. 

“That’s okay, hun. You can do it. Just keep swallowing,” She coaxed. Tears streamed down his face as he swallowed again with the same result. Charlie quickly shoved a  very small emesis basin into his hand. He gagged harshly and took a breath in through his mouth, which moved the tube slightly, causing him to gag again. His stomach clenched and he felt a surge of liquid rush up his throat and spit out a mouthful of water and lidocaine gel into the pink container. 

“I can stop if you need me to,” Charlie said, as she stopped moving the tube. Dantae cleared his throat and shook his head, indicating for her to keep going.

“Just let me know if we need to stop,” she said softly and began moving the tube again. Ryan stuck his hand into Dantae’s grip and winced very softly when his husband squeezed hard. Dantae’s stomach lurched yet again, bringing up another mouthful of gel and water. 

Charlie used the precious seconds in between gags and subsequent vomiting to slide the tube back further, causing harsher and harsher gags. 

“It’s in!” She said happily and Dantae looked at her with only his eyes. He was too afraid to move his head. She secured the tube to his cheek with a piece of medical tape and set the rest of the tube behind his ear for support.

“I need you to lean back now, okay?” she said and touched Dantae’s shoulder to lead him against the back of the bench. “I’m going to give you a small amount of this sweetened saline here,” she pointed at a second syringe. It looked like a syringe you’d use to feed medicine to a pet, but larger. “I will need you to swallow it but do not swallow again for ten seconds afterwards. Think you can do that?” 

“I’ll try,” Dantae said, struggling not to gag again.

“Excellent. We only need to do this ten times, and you’ll be on your way, okay? You’ll do great, I know it,” Charlie cooed. Dantae let out a strangled chuckle and tried his hardest to relax. Dantae managed to get through 6 swallows before gagging again. 

“Try Letting your mouth hang open while sticking your tongue out. See if that helps,” Charlie told him. “Swallow number seven, now. Ready?” Charlie didn’t even let him answer before giving him more saline. Dantae swallowed and immediately opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out. Tears continued to leak from his eyes. Ryan chuckled at him.

“You should see your face, babe. It’s hilarious.” Ryan laughed. Dantae glared at him, and Ryan laughed harder. Dantae gagged again after the ten seconds of waiting. The smile dropped from Ryan’s face.

“You’re doing it, you’re doing great,” Ryan said and rubbed circles across his back. The movement did little to help, but Dantae appreciated the comfort regardless. The eighth swallow went well, but Dantae fell apart on the ninth. He gagged harshly and vomited into the basin again. Charlie quickly switched out the full basin for an empty one just in time for Dantae to throw up one more time.

       “You can do it Dantae. You’re doing great. Just two more!” Charlie chimed in. Dantae took a deep breath, swallowed the saline, and opened his mouth wider. He squeezed Ryan’s hand again as he struggled to not swallow. He breathed loudly through his mouth before Charlie told him it was okay to swallow again. He swallowed without thinking about it and retched harshly and loudly. Dantae tried three more times to complete the tenth reading, but Charlie stopped him. 

       “We’ll finish here. Nine should be okay. I don’t want you to suffer more. I’m going to start pulling the tube out, okay?” She asked and gently pulled the tape off his cheek. 

       Dantae took a deep breath and nodded. Ryan let go of his hand, just in case it got in the way. As Charlie began to pull, he gagged over and over, vomiting again as the end of the tube was pulled out of his nose. Dantae’s stomach gave one last heave before it settled down completely. 

       “Oh god, please tell me that I will never have to do that again,” Dantae gasped and held the emesis basin out to the nurse. He didn’t want to look at it anymore. 

       “Probably not, but your doctor will confirm that with you when they read the test.” She said as she discarded the emesis basin and began taking the equipment apart. 

       “Thank you so much for being gentle,” Dantae said and pulled off the gown. She smiled sweetly and chuckled softly

       “Of course! The last thing we want to do is cause undue suffering, especially if they throw up. I always feel bad when someone needs to reschedule. It’s pretty rare, but it does happen. You’re free to go, though! Make sure you contact your doctor if something arises. I hope you can enjoy the rest of your day!” Charlie smiled at him and gave a friendly wave. Dantae thanked her again and took Ryan’s hand again and left the building.

       “That was awful! My head hurts, my throat hurts, my nose hurts, my stomach hurts. I wanna curl up into a ball and sleep for days”, Dantae whined when they got to the car. 

       “I know baby, I’m sorry you had to go through that. When we get home, I’ll make you some tea and get you set up on the couch. I’ll give you some quality cuddles, okay?” Ryan said to him, lovingly. 

       “Sounds amazing,” he replied and let his head fall back against the seat. When they got home, Ryan helped him out of the car and into the house. Dantae collapsed dramatically onto the couch. After a moment of silence he remarked, “I’m hungry.”

Ryan did a facepalm and chuckled. 

       “Of course you are. I’ll make some soup for us. Take a nap for now,” 

       “With pleasure,” Dantae responded and fell asleep within ten minutes.

#sickdays 6 #20 may 2020 #submission #whump #illness #emeto #emetophilia #puke #vomit #tw vomit #tw hospital #tw medical procedure #streakfreeshine