when health fails, friendship prevails

by Anonymous

Summary:

A collection of stories about friendship and caretaking, centered around original characters who attend a fictional university. Most stories include a sickfic/comfort element to them.

Notes:

Characters: Phil Lammers, Scott Keene

Summary: Two college roommates navigate new territory in their friendship when one comes down with the stomach flu.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

Chapter 1: seriously, thank you

Scott is surprised when he returns to his dorm after class to find his roommate Philip fast asleep in the adjacent bed. In fact, it makes his heart skip.

Because Philip is late for swim practice.

Scott glances at his watch.

Over an hour late.

And Scott knows how dedicated Philip is to the sport; he’s been trying to establish himself as a leader to the team. He wouldn’t dream of being late.

Scott stares at Philip’s form on the bed for a little longer, trying to work up the courage to wake him up. He’s a little intimidated by Phil sometimes. Not because Philip is scary, per se, but because he respects him so much.

They’re still in the first month of getting to know each other and it’s taking some time; they come from different worlds.

Philip is an elite athlete. He’s charismatic. Smart. He’s been thriving under the independence that college brings.

Scott was homeschooled all the way through his senior year. College life is a culture shock to him. He feels out of place. Misses his family. Phil has been his lifeline so far.

He drops his bag on his own bed and lets out a breath of air he didn’t realize he was holding in. He crosses the small space of their dorm room so he can gently shake Philip’s shoulder.

“Hey, Phil?” he says softly.

Philip blinks up at him, clearly disoriented as he squints through the dim light of their dorm room. “Mm?” he mumbles.

“Hey, I think you’re late for practice, man...” Scott tells him nervously. “It’s after three.”

Phil pushes himself up on his elbow as he processes what Scott said, then shakes his head. “No, I went. Coach sent me home.”

His voice sounds weak. Strained. Scott frowns. “How come? What’s wrong?”

Philip audibly swallows. “I got sick,” he breathes. He’s hiding his face with his hand. “I-It came on really suddenly.”

“You threw up?” Scott clarifies, just now noticing the trashcan that had been strategically placed by the head of Phil’s bed.

“Yeah. In front of the whole team,” he groans, embarrassed.

Scott’s heart sinks for his friend. “Dang, that really sucks.” He scratches the back of his head. He wants to help, but he isn’t sure how. “Anything I can do? Are you still feeling bad?”

Philip lifts one shoulder up in a shrug as he considers. “My stomach still feels kind of weird. Think I just need to sleep it off.”

Scott winces because he was the one who interrupted Phil’s sleep in the first place. “Yeah, sorry for waking you up...”

“No, hey, it’s okay,” Philip assures him quickly. “I appreciate you lookin’ out, man.”

Scott nods curtly and gives him a little half-smile. “Will it bother you if I study in here? I was going to head to the library, but now I think I should stay...”

“It won’t bother me,” Phil tells him. “I’m so tired I think I could sleep through anything right now. But you don’t have to look after me, Keene. I’ll be fine. If this is a virus, then I don’t want you getting sick, too.”

Scott shrugs. “We’re roommates. I can’t exactly escape your germs. Besides, what is it you always say?” he asks. “It’s all part of the ‘college experience.’”

“Dude, I only say that about fun things,” Phil retorts. “Like when I’m trying to convince you to come to a party or buy football tickets with me. Sharing viruses is one we could skip.”

“I’m staying,” Scott tells him bluntly.

“Suit yourself.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Philip sleeps like the dead for two more hours while Scott studies for the anatomy quiz he has the next day. It’s around 5:30 when Phil’s phone starts going off with notifications from texts, causing him to stir. He reaches an arm out to flip on the nightstand lamp.

Philip sits up with groan and draws his legs up into his chest. He rubs his face with his hands and looks over at Scott in the adjacent bed.

“Hey,” Scott greets him gently, setting his work aside. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

“Mm,” Philip grunts an acknowledgment in his general direction. He picks up his phone when it dings again and blinks at it dazedly.

“You’ve been blowin’ up, man.”

Philip lets the hand holding his phone go limp; his phone drops back onto the mattress. “Yeah, some of the guys are checkin’ up on me,” he explains, voice weak. He leans his head back against the pillows. “They just finished with weights.”

“You still feeling pretty rough?”

“Think I feel worse, if that’s possible,” Phil mumbles, eyes closed. A chill runs through him and he shivers harshly.

Scott swallows. It’s weird seeing Philip in such a vulnerable state. He’s usually so put together. Confident. Scott hates seeing him this way.

He pushes himself off his bed so he can get a better look at his friend. He sits down on the edge of Phil’s bed and reaches a hand out to feel his forehead. He realizes then that Philip’s shirt is soaked through and clinging to his skin. There’s sweat on his brow and Scott feels undeniable heat on his palm.

“I think you’re running a fever.”

“Awesome,” Phil deadpans. “I wasn’t earlier when the trainer checked.”

“Well, no wonder you feel worse. Want me to grab you a fresh shirt?”

“No, that’s okay,” Philip says quickly, clearly taken aback by how attentive and nurturing Scott is being. “You don’t have to—” he breaks off suddenly, face draining of color. He gulps hard and curls one of his arms around his stomach, eyes wide with sudden panic.

Scott jumps up. “Trashcan’s right here, man. Here, let me...” He scoops his arms under Philip’s calves so he can help him get his feet on the floor and leaning over the trashcan.

Just in time, too.

With his elbows resting on his knees, head in his hands, Philip heaves hard, bringing up a wave of vomit that sloshes and echoes into the bin. He barely has time to take a breath before another wave rushes out of him.

“Oh, God,” he chokes out, breathing heavy. Saliva continues to drip from his parted lips, thick and fast, which means he’s not done yet.

Scott puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. If he wasn’t so concerned for Phil’s wellbeing, he’d probably take more time to appreciate the firmness of his swimmer-toned deltoid muscle (freakin’ anatomy, always taking over his thoughts these days). “Just let it happen,” he coaches gently, because Phil is too tense, trying to resist. “You’re okay.”

Philip drops his head further and strains, bringing up some more bile and stomach juices. He moans, then heaves again, and more substance comes up in gush. He’s left panting, belching and spitting the remnants of drool into the bin.

Scott takes a tentative seat back beside him, and starts rubbing his hand up and down Phil’s sweat- soaked back. Lets him catch his breath as the nausea dissipates.

“T-Think I’m finished,” Philip croaks after a while, though his entire body is trembling from exertion and he still hasn’t lifted his head. “God, ’m sorry you had to see that.”

Scott is truthfully unfazed. “I’m pre-med, man,” he reminds Phil, squeezing his shoulder gently. “If I can’t handle a little puke then I should probably rethink my career path.”

“Touché,” Phil mumbles and lists to the side, collapsing into his pillows.

Scott pulls the now-offending trashcan away from him, thankful that it had been lined with a bag. He ties it off, and sets the bag by the door to be dealt with later. He grabs another trash bag from under the sink cabinet and shakes it out. He replaces the bag in the trashcan and returns it to the designated spot by Philip’s head.

Phil watches him with bleary eyes as Scott grabs a clean T-shirt from one of the drawers. “You make a good mom,” Philip jokes weakly, but Scott hears the grateful undertone in his voice.

Scott rolls his eyes. “Arms up.” And then he’s helping him out of his sweaty T-shirt and into the dry one. And Philip lets him. And for once Scott feels like he’s bringing something to their friendship instead of just taking.

Next order of business is hydration.

Scott eyes Philip’s water bottle in the mesh pocket of his swim bag on the floor by his side of the closet. He grabs it; it’s still full. He holds it up for Phil to see. “This water in here?” he asks, giving it a little shake.

“No, actually, the trainer mixed some Pedialyte into it,” he grumbles for an answer. “She was afraid I’d get dehydrated.”

Scott’s a little worried about that, too. “Even better.” He hands it over. “Try a few sips, okay? Then you can go back to sleep.”

“Yessir,” Philip says and mock salutes. He tips the bottle back, manages a few swallows.

There’s a tense couple of moments, as they wait to see if it’ll stay down. Scott sees the moment Phil relaxes, thinks he’s in the clear.

He raises his eyebrows. “You good?”

Philip nods. “Think so.”

“Okay, lean back.”

He helps Philip get his legs back onto the bed, pulls the covers up, tucks them around his ailing friend...

He pauses when he realizes he might be going a bit overboard. He glances at Philip who’s staring at him in wonderment. “You’re gonna start calling me ‘Mom’ now, aren’t you?” he asks dreadfully.

Phil’s lips twitch into a brief smile. “Yeah, I think you’ve earned it.”

Scott huffs out a chuckle and starts to reach across him to turn off the nightstand lamp, but Phil says, “Scott,” and grabs his hand, looks him in the eye. He lets out a deep breath. “Seriously, thank you.”

Scott smiles softly at him. He squeezes his hand. “Seriously, you’re welcome.” He turns the light off, then pats Philip’s knee. “Get some rest.”

Fin.

Chapter 2: let's go home

Notes:

Characters: Scott Keene, Phil Lammers

Summary: Scott agrees to go to a concert with Phil and the team. It doesn’t go as well as he hoped.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

“Scott!” Phil bursts into their dorm room. “Guess who’s playing at the free concert this year!”

Scott looks up from physiology textbook, raises his eyebrows. “Who?”

“Only one of my favorite bands ever!”

Scott chuckles at him. Living with Phil is like living with a golden retriever puppy. Same energy. “And who would that be?”

“Weezer!”

Scott jumps up. “What? No way! I’ve actually heard of them!”

“Yeah! The team’s gonna head straight there after practice on Friday. Want to meet us there? Adam wants you to come!”

Scott is stunned. His biggest fear had been that he wouldn’t make any friends in college. He was homeschooled all his life and as much as he hates the stereotype that homeschoolers are social outcasts, he has to admit to himself that it’s kind of... true. He’s awkward and shy and he’s painfully aware of it.

But he was paired up with one hell of a guy, just because Phil was odd-man-out of the freshman swim roster, and now Scott seems to have some built-in friends who include him in things like going to a concert. Scott’s never been to a concert, unless you count the Christian rock bands that perform at church camps.

So, yes, of course he’ll meet them there.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scott still gets a bit nervous when hanging out with the team. He almost feels like he has to prove himself to be around them. So right now, as he’s walking to the quad to meet the guys, his stomach is a little unsettled.

He finds them easily in the crowd. With their broad shoulders and chlorine-washed hair, they’d be hard to miss. The only thing throwing Scott off is that the guys chose to wear jeans and a nice shirt instead of their team sweats they usually live in. He shuffles through the growing crowd to meet them. “Wow, you guys clean up nice,” he greets as he approaches. “Scotty!” Philip slings his arm around Scott’s shoulders while the rest of the team, sans Rhett, greets him with a hello.

“You know Weezer, Keene?” Adam asks.

“I know one song...” Scott says with a shrug. “Beverly Hills?”

Rhett scoffs. “That’s the only one you know?”

Scott swallows hard, his stomach flipping under Rhett’s scrutiny.

Porter glowers at Rhett. “So what? I wish I was experiencing Weezer for the first time at their live show. If you ask me, that’s the way to do it.”

“Yeah, totally,” TJ agrees.

Rhett rolls his eyes. “Whatever,” he says, and turns away from the team to hit on some girls who are standing nearby.

“As you can see, Rhett is still an asshole,” Porter tells Scott pointedly.

“But he’s also the reason we have a chance at winning our conference this year, so we have to keep him around,” Phil laments.

“Easy for you to say, you don’t have to live with him,” Adam grumbles.

“No, but we–” Philip motions between him and Scott “–have to put up with your sorry ass more because you can’t handle it,” he jokes.

“You can hang out in our room any time,” Scott tells Adam genuinely. Adam gives him a grateful smile and they settle in to watch the opening bands.

Scott wishes he could relax. The guys like him - well most of them do, anyway. But he still feels incredibly uneasy. On edge. He can’t figure it out.

He takes in a deep breath, and tries to soak up the sounds and sights of a college-sponsored concert on the quad. There’s the heavy scent of weed permeating through the air, laughter from students forgetting their responsibilities - if only for moment - that’s drowned out by the music floating from the speakers, the deep rumbling of the bass that sends gentle shock waves through Scott’s body.

It’s essentially a perfect night, so why does he still feel like he could throw up at any second?

~*~*~*~*~*~

He catches on just as Weezer takes the stage.

It’s not nerves. He’s genuinely ill.

It slams into him like a tsunami. Suddenly, the weed smell is too much, the crowd noise is too much, the deep rumble from the microphone as the band greets their fans is too much. He needs to get some air, away from these sweaty bodies pressed up against each other.

He tries to tell Philip where he’s going, but he can’t make his voice work enough to carry over the crowd noise. So he turns on his heel and pushes through the crowd; he’ll text Phil when he’s out of here and can breathe properly again.

The threat of throwing up builds as he makes his way, frantically, through the sea of people. His stomach is churning relentlessly and he’s vaguely aware that he’s broken out into a cold sweat. He finally makes it to some open space, but he keeps walking, far enough to distance himself from the crowd so that if he gets sick, he won’t be near enough for anyone to notice.

He comes to a halt by some trees at the edge of the quad, taking in gulps of fresh, cool autumn air. He rounds to the back of trees, facing the sidewalk, and leans forward, one hand bracing himself against the trunk of a tree, the other arm wrapped tightly around his protesting stomach. He tries to will away the nausea, but his legs are trembling and he feels hot and cold at the same time and... oh no—

Warm liquid scorches up his throat and onto the grass in front of him. He’s grateful that it has gotten dark out, because he feels bad enough as it is; he doesn’t need a visual, too. He retches again, bringing up more substance.

“Ugh,” he moans, and spits. Waiting, hoping, that he’s finished. When he only brings up more drool, he figures it’s safe enough to sit down. He makes his way back to the front of the trees and sits down heavily.

As he does, his phone vibrates in his pocket.

It’s Phil. Of course it’s Phil. A text: Where’d you go?

Scott blinks down at his phone and lazily types a response. He doesn’t want Phil to worry, so he just says: Needed some air. Sitting by some trees at the back of the quad.

Immediately, Phil texts back: You ok?

Scott thinks about telling him the truth. Even starts to type out I just threw up, but erases it and sends Yeah, I’m fine, instead. He doesn’t want to ruin the concert for Philip. Scott figures he can just stay here until he has the steam to walk back to the dorm.

Phil stops texting after that, so Scott leans back against the tree and closes his eyes. His stomach is still aching, so he keeps an arm wrapped tightly around his middle. He can hear the band playing in the distance and he lets himself drift...

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Scott, hey...”

Scott opens his eyes to a hand on his forehead and an outline of Phil kneeling beside him. It takes him a second to remember where he is. He must’ve dozed off. “Hey...” he mumbles, and pushes himself up with trembling arms. He can still hear the concert going on, which means Philip is actively missing it. “Thought I told you I was fine.”

“Well, good thing I didn’t believe you because you are so not fine,” Phil tells him bluntly. “That pile of sick belong to you?”

Scott grimaces. “Maybe."

Phil sighs sympathetically. “You should have said something sooner...”

“I-I thought it was just nerves,” Scott explains softly, voice thick with emotion. He feels a tear slip down his cheek. “And then when I realized I w-was actually sick, I didn’t w-want to say anything because—”

“Because you didn’t want me to miss the concert,” Philip finishes for him softly.

Scott lifts one shoulder up in a shrug. “Yeah.” He slides his fingers under his glasses to wipe his eyes and sniffs loudly. “So go back to the concert, man. I-I’m just gonna walk back to the dorms.”

“Not alone, you’re not.”

“Phil—”

“I don’t care about the concert, man. What I do care about is getting you back to the dorms and into bed, because I’m pretty sure you’re running one hell of a fever.”

“But...”

“Seriously, Keene. The concert is the farthest thing from my mind right now. Let me just text the guys that we’re leaving.”

Phil whips out his phone, sends a quick text, then holds his hand out to Scott.

Scott takes his hand. And through his fog of sickness and misery, he wonders, in absolute awe, how he managed to land a roommate as remarkable and loyal as Phil. He doesn’t know what he’d do without him.

“C’mon,” Phil says to him gently as he pulls Scott to his feet. “Let’s go home.”

Fin.

Chapter 3: be the bigger person

Notes:

Characters: Rhett Malloy, Scott Keene

Summary: Scott has been helping out in the trainer’s office at the natatorium to put in some volunteer hours. It’s been pretty mundane so far. Until today.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting, mentions of diarrhea, references to self-harm

Part 1

“Hey, Keene, you have a second to refill the Gatorade jug?”

Coach Dan Jennings sticks his head inside the trainer’s office where Scott is winding up some washed ACE bandages.

He glances at Erin, the trainer, who’s doing paperwork at her computer. She smiles and nods. “Bandages can wait.”

“Sure, Coach,” Scott replies.

He’s been helping out in the trainer’s office at the natatorium, for almost two weeks now, on the the days that his classes don’t interfere with practice times. Phil got him the position after Scott had complained to him about having a hard time finding volunteer hours in the medical field. And while Scott had never considered the sports medicine route, he feels like he’s been learning a lot from Erin nonetheless.

Coach had brought the cart with the water and Gatorade jugs to the doorway. Scott pulls it inside and heads to the ice machine.

He scoops some ice into the jug, then grabs the hose and fills it up. Then he pours in the Gatorade powder and mixes it up.

He returns to the deck with the cart.

“Thanks, Keene,” Coach acknowledges. “The distance guys are finishing up a tough set. They’re gonna need some electrolytes.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Scott comments as he takes a moment to watch the swimmers. It’s unreal how many yards they put in to one practice. They seem to glide through the water so effortlessly, too. Scott is pretty sure it would take him an entire minute to swim the length of the pool, but these swimmers can do four lengths in that time. “I love watching them.”

“Well, some are under-performing right now,” Coach says, glancing at his stopwatch. He calls out the time for Rhett who had just paused at the wall, panting heavily. He’d finished ahead of his teammates, but Coach doesn’t seem pleased. “These 300s are best effort, Molloy. That’s too slow for how much rest you’re getting. Pick it up on this last one.”

“‘Kay,” Rhett grunts between greedy breaths of air as Jennings calls out the other times as the remaining swimmers finish to the wall. Rhett’s clutching his stomach; Scott wonders if he has a cramp.

“We need to pick up the pace here, fellas,” Jennings encourages. “Last one. One minute left to rest.”

Meanwhile, Scott spots Philip and Adam three lanes over, doing a backstroke set with the assistant coach, Hank Olsen. He’s leading the specialty strokes while Jennings is covering the freestylers. The sprinters have already finished their main set and and are warming down.

Philip catches Scott’s eye and gives him a little wave before pushing off the wall again.

“Rhett, you alright, man?” Scott hears one of Rhett’s lane mates say, and his attention is immediately back on the distance swimmers. “Hey, Coach?”

The swimmers in Rhett’s lane are backing away from him slowly. Rhett has tossed his goggles aside and is clutching his head in his hands. His elbows are resting on the gutter, head bowed. Scott can hear him moaning softly. He sounds nauseated. Sick.

Coach frowns with concern. “You okay, Molloy?” he asks doubtfully, crouching down in front of him.

“D-Don’t feel good,” Rhett gulps out; his arms are trembling.

“Okay, guys, take another few minutes,” Coach tells the swimmers. “Rhett, you think you can make it to the ladder, son?”

Rhett doesn’t answer. He can’t, because in the same moment, he throws up a slurry of stomach contents, thankfully into the gutter. It’s forceful. Loud. The same way Rhett is in every other facet of his life.

“Oh geez, kid,” Coach says wearily. He whistles loudly. “Everybody out of the pool.”

“Fuck, sorry,” Rhett breathes out, as the rest of the swimmers catch on to what’s happening and exit the water with disgust. Coach Olsen whistles for them to join him by the diving well so they can do some under-waters while Rhett gets sorted out.

“You’re okay, kid,” Coach assures. He has one hand on Rhett’s shoulder, trying to stay out of the splash-zone if he were to get sick again, but also trying to provide comfort. “You think you’re done?”

One of the lifeguards has already entered the pool to help Rhett get out and is making his way over.

“Nnh,” Rhett shakes his head slightly. He coughs, and with it comes another wave of vomit.

“I’ll go get Erin,” Scott offers. When Jennings nods, he sprints back to the trainer’s office.

“What’s up?” Erin asks and stands, immediately realizing she is needed.

“Rhett Molloy got sick.”

“He threw up?” she asks, grabbing her vitals bag and following Scott back out to the deck.

"Yeah.”

By the time they return, the lifeguard and Jennings have gotten Rhett out of the pool and now he’s sitting on one of the benches that surround the pool’s perimeter. Someone has removed his swim cap and has wrapped a towel around him.

Jennings is still crouched in front of him; a trash can has been pulled nearby in case he needs it. Rhett is breathing heavy. His eyes are closed. He’s hunched into himself. But Scott hears him saying, “I’m fine. Just give me a minute.”

Erin joins Jennings in crouching down in front of him and starts by taking his temperature with an ear thermometer. “Temp is elevated. 102.8,” she tells Scott when she gets a reading; his cue to write it down on her clipboard. “Rhett, are you feeling dizzy at all?” she asks as she take ahold of his wrist to take his pulse. She sticks a pulse oximeter on his left index finger, too.

“A little,” he answers. “Getting better...”

“Okay, good,” she says gently. “Oxygen level normal. Heart rate elevated, as expected,” she reports. “93 and 162” she tells Scott so he can record. “Any stomach pain?“

“N-Not really. My stomach just feels... r-really weird.”

“Weird how?” Erin prompts, as she sticks the blood pressure cuff around his arm.

“Just... really heavy. Full,” he shrugs, then shivers. “Think I’m just nauseous. Picked up a bug or something.”

Erin nods. “Sounds that way, but we’ll want to be sure.” She inflates the cuff, pauses to get a reading. “Blood pressure is normal.” She looks at Coach. “I want to do a more thorough exam on him, but I think it’ll be alright to wait until he’s had a shower and gotten changed. He looks like he needs to warm up.”

“Yes, fucking please,” Rhett says through chattering teeth.

“I want someone to stay with you, though,” Erin tells him. “Since you’re running a heck of a fever and feeling a little dizzy. Okay?”

“‘Kay, whatever.”

“Keene, do you mind?” Coach asks.

Yeah, I mind, Scott thinks. He’s completely intimidated by Rhett. The guy is mean, strong, crude, loud, and scary.

But right now, he isn’t any of those things. He’s vulnerable. Weak. And he’s sure Jennings wants to get back to the rest of the team. It’s a good opportunity for Scott to be the bigger person.

“Yeah, I can stay with him,” he says.

So Rhett stands with shaky legs and heads into the locker room with Scott hovering a few paces behind him. Once they enter the locker room Rhett drapes the towel over the door of his locker and then heads for the shower room. He leaves his swim suit jammers on. Scott lingers by the door to the deck, but Rhett is still in his line of vision, sighing as he lets hot water rush over him. He’s leaning his back against the wall and holding his stomach with both hands.

Scott bites down on his lip. Now that the towel isn’t around him, Scott can tell that Rhett’s stomach is bloated. Distended might even be a better word for it. It’s worrisome enough for Scott to start running through a list in his head of possible causes for stomach distention that he’s learned in his schooling so far.

“What’re you staring at, perv?” Rhett growls at him.

Scott blinks, his train of thought wrecked by the blunt guy in front of him. “Nothing,” he says simply. “Your stomach’s just... it’s really bloated. Are you sure you’re not having any pain?”

Rhett shrugs and grunts out an, “I’m fine,” but he isn’t discrete about it when he wraps his arms around his middle more tightly.

Scott wonders if now that the adrenaline from the main set is starting to wear off that it’s really starting to hit him.

“Okay, man. I’ll just be over here,” he tells Rhett, and stands by the sinks behind the stall doors of the toilets, to give him the illusion of privacy. “Holler if you need me.”

As it turns out, Rhett does need him. Not even two minutes later, he leaves the water running and stumbles to the toilets. He slams the stall door shut behind him and Scott immediately hears sounds of distress coming from his south end.

His own gut aches with empathy. “You okay, man?” Scott asks; he walks into the showers to turn the water off; based on what he’s hearing, he anticipates Rhett being on the toilet for a while.

Rhett groans as liquid rushes out of him. “F-Fucking peachy,” he mumbles. He’s panting, moaning, low-key whimpering, and Scott legitimately feels bad for him.

“Anything I can do?” he asks when the sounds have died down some, half-expecting Rhett to tell him to fuck off.

But Rhett hesitates for a moment. “Y-Yeah,” he says shakily. “Can you bring me my boxers and shorts? I... um... I-I didn’t...” he breathes out a huff of air and says very quietly. “My suit’s ruined.”

Oh. Oh. He’s so sick he hadn’t even made it in time.

“Sure,” Scott says easily. He can’t imagine how humiliated Rhett is right now and he knows he only has it in him to be kind during a time like this. He grabs the items from Rhett’s locker, along with his towel. “Do you need to rinse off again?” he asks gently, nose crinkling at the stench that is starting to fill the locker room.

“I-I don’t know. F-Fuck.” He sounds so desperate, close to tears. Scott recognizes that he needs to take charge.

“I’m gonna come in, okay?” he warns Rhett softly. He nudges the stall door open, heart sinking at the sight of the toughest and roughest guy he knows.

Rhett is leaning forward on the toilet so far that his chest is nearly touching his thighs. His arms around are wrapped around his middle. His swim suit is only part way down his hind end, and he’s right; his suit is ruined.

Scott springs into action. He’d taken care of his younger siblings plenty of times when they’d been sick in a similar fashion. He can do this, now, too. He drapes the items he’s holding over the stall door, holds his breath, then kneels down to peel Rhett’s swim suit the rest of the way off his ankles.

And Rhett lets him. Barely even flinches. He must be feeling so bad.

Next Scott helps pull him to his feet, trying to keep his eyes trained on his face. But something catches his eye. Scars. A mixture of old and new ones. All up and down Rhett’s thighs. Like he’d been cut several times.

Scott feels emotion rise in his throat, but he swallows it back down. He can feel feelings about that later. Right now he needs to get Rhett rinsed, changed, and back to Erin. Maybe even to a hospital, he’s starting to think.

So that’s what he does. He guides Rhett back to the shower, and supports him while he gets rinsed clean. Then he guides him to the bench in front of his locker. Dries him off. Threads his legs through his boxers and shorts. Slides his socks and shoes on.

He doesn’t bother to have him put on a shirt. Erin’s going to have to look at his abdomen anyway. He slings Rhett’s shirt over his shoulder.

“You think you can make it to the trainer’s office?” he asks, putting a hand on Rhett’s shoulder, eyes flicking to his distended stomach. “Or do you want me to bring Erin in here?”

Rhett shakes his head. “I can make it,” he says. As if to prove it, he stands unevenly, then bends over to pull his shorts and boxers up himself. He takes some deep breaths, then nods. "Let’s go.”

Rhett makes it partway down the back hallway to Erin’s office when he stops suddenly in his tracks, and gulps hard. The color drains from his face.

Shit, Scott thinks.

There’s nothing they can do about it. There’s not a thing in sight for him to be sick in.

There’s not time to fret about it, though. It’s happening. Scott barely even has time to step out of the way before Rhett is leaning forward, hands on his knees, and retching hard, bringing up another wave of vomit.

He spits. He’s panting, trembling too much, and has gone scarily white in the face. “...Rhett?” Scott says unsurely, taking a step closer.

He’s too late, though. He’s not close enough to catch him when Rhett yelps in pain, knees buckling as he falls to the ground on all fours. He lifts one hand to grab his stomach, and folds into himself. He’s clearly in distress now. Excruciating pain. “G-Get help,” he breathes frantically, as more bile drips from his lips.

Now it’s Scott’s turn to have adrenaline. He sprints down the hallway faster than his asthma-ridden self ever has before, yelling for Erin all the way.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Part 2

“Scott, hey.”

He blinks and sits up. He’s in the waiting room at the ER. Coach Jennings and Erin had let him ride along when they followed Rhett in the ambulance after his collapse. They’re with him now. Phil and Adam have just arrived, accompanied by the team captains, Jason and Dean.

“Hey guys,” he greets tiredly. He must’ve dozed off.

“How’s he doing? Any word?” They all take seats surrounding him. He shakes his head.

“Not yet. You guys got here fast.”

Adam nods. “Yeah, Olsen let us go early. Cancelled weights. Thought we’d be too distracted.” He glances at Scott. “Has anyone gotten ahold of his dad?”

“Jennings tried him. Had to leave a message.” Scott isn’t sure why, but his voice is uneven as he speaks.

Dean tilts his head at him. “You alright, Keene?”

He shrugs, looks at them nervously. “It was just... scary. The way he collapsed like he did. He was so sick and he seemed really scared...”

Phil puts a calming hand on his knee. “He’s lucky you were with him. You got him help.”

“Are Jennings and Erin with him now?” Jason asks.

Scott nods. “Erin said she’d come give me updates.”

“That could be a while,” Dean says. “Have you eaten, man? We all grabbed something on the way over...”

“We tried texting you,” Phil says.

Scott must’ve missed it. “I’m not hungry anyway,” he tells them. He glances at the doors that they took Rhett through, wishing Erin would just come out and talk to them already.

Phil puts a hand on his shoulder. “This really has you freaked out, huh?” he says gently.

Scott rubs his hands over his eyes. “Yeah. I mean... I know he’s not like... our favorite person ever, but...”

“But you want him to be okay,” Adam finishes for him softly. “We get it, man. It’s okay to be upset. We want him to be okay, too.”

Scott nods and rubs at his eyes.

“Hey, I grabbed a deck of cards from my car, if you guys want to do something to pass the time,” Jason offers. “Might take our minds off of waiting.”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Phil says. “Scott?”

He nods. A distraction would be good.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Two games of Euchre and almost an entire hour later, Erin and Coach Jennings appear to give them an update.

Rhett had undergone a CT scan that indicated he has a perforated bowel.

Scott stomach drops immediately at that news, but the rest of the guys don’t seem to understand how serious that is. “What does that mean?” they ask.

“It means there’s a tear or hole in his intestine, which means bacteria can leak into his abdominal cavity and cause an infection,” Scott tells them. “He’ll probably need surgery to repair it.”

“That’s exactly right, Scott,” Erin says, seemingly impressed by his knowledge on the matter.

“They’re prepping him for surgery now.”

“Oh, gosh,” Adam breathes. Phil cards a nervous hand through his hair. Dean and Jason swallow hard.

“Is he stable?” Scott asks, voice shaking a bit. “I mean, was he talking to you guys? Does he know what’s going on?”

“Yes, he was coherent enough to understand what was going on,” Coach Jennings answers. “Now, this is very serious what Rhett is going through, but the doctors are hopeful. They think they caught it in time.”

“How serious are we talking?” Dean asks.

Scott swallows hard. He knows this too. “Intestinal perforation has a mortality rate of about 15% on its own. It triples and then some if there’s an infection and it spreads.”

Phil is looking at Scott in wonderment, as if to say how in the world do you know all of this? And, welp, Scott’s showing off his photographic memory in this moment.

“Fortunately, the doctors believe that antibiotics will be able to treat Rhett successfully in preventing any further spread of infection,” Erin says, which is encouraging to hear.

Adam doesn’t see it that way. “But... you’re still telling us that Rhett has a fifteen percent chance of dying? That’s what mortality rate means, right?” He looks like he might start crying.

Coach Jennings puts a hand on his shoulder. “Yes, son, that’s what it means. But you need to understand that the people who go through this are usually older and in very poor health. Rhett is young and he’s fit, otherwise healthy...”

“I don’t get it,” Jason pipes up. “What causes a perforated bowel? If it usually happens to older people and people in poor health, then why did this happen to Rhett?”

“They’re still trying to figure that out,” Erin says. “Just know that he’s in really good hands, okay?”

They all nod soberly.

“Now listen, boys,” Coach Jennings says. “I want you all to get out of here. Erin and I will be here and can keep you updated on how Rhett’s surgery goes. If he is feeling up for visitors after he comes out of the anesthesia, then you can come back. I appreciate you all wanting to be here for your teammate, but there’s no use in waiting around a hospital all day. Go watch the football game. We promise we’ll keep you posted.”

It’s a big game today; the determining factor if their team will be contenders for the conference championship.

“Yessir,” Dean says.

~*~*~*~*~*~

They all go back to Jason and Dean’s place. They turn the game on, but they aren’t really watching it. It’s the last thing on their minds right now. Each of them is scrolling through WebMD, trying to learn more about Rhett’s condition.

“Do you think we should, I don’t know... say a prayer or something?” Jason asks quietly.

Dean furrows his brows. “I didn’t think you were religious,” he says.

“I’m not, really,” Jason says, his face turning a little red. “But you guys are, right? It just seems like the right thing to do.” He shrugs.

“Yeah, okay, let’s do it,” Adam agrees.

“Do you mind leading?” Phil asks him.

“Not at all.”

So they all hold hands and bow their heads.

~*~*~*~*~*~

At the start of the halftime, Coach texts Jason that Rhett is out of surgery and it seems to have gone really well.

(They all breathe a sigh of relief.)

Coach tells them that they’re just waiting for him to come out of the anesthesia and will call them when he wakes up.

Which he does toward the end of the football game.

“Hey, Coach,” Jason greets. “You’re on speaker. How’s Rhett?”

“Hi boys,” Coach says. “He’s awake. Still getting his bearings a little bit.”

“The surgery went well?” Phil asks.

“Yes. No complications as far as they can tell right now.”

“Okay, good. Good,” Jason says.

“He’s still feeling pretty rough. Nauseated and what not... which they say will be pretty normal as he recovers. It’s going to take some time before he’s cleared to get back in the water. He’s taking that news pretty hard.”

“How long?” Dean asks.

“They’re saying 4-6 weeks,” Coach answers.

The swimmers in the group collectively wince. “That puts him out up until the Bennington meet,” Adam sighs. “No wonder he’s taking it hard.”

“Yeah, he’s pretty torn up about it,” Coach agrees. “I think he feels like he’s letting the team down. He’s not understanding that none of us are even thinking about that. We just want him to be okay.”

“Coach, can we come see him?” Jason asks. “Maybe he needs to hear us say that.”

“I told him you guys had been here,” Coach says. “And that you would want to come see him when he woke up. But... I don’t think he’s up for a lot of visitors right now. He’s really not feeling too good, and he’s pretty overwhelmed about everything. He might need a couple of days before he’s up to seeing everyone. He has been asking for Keene, though. Scott, are you with the guys?”

Scott feels heat rush to his face at being singled out. “Yeah, I’m here,” he stammers out, not understanding why Rhett wants to see him above anybody else.

“Would you be able to come back down here?” Coach asks.

“Yeah, that shouldn’t be a problem...” Scott answers, glancing at Jason. The rest of the guys are staring at him in confusion.

“I’ll drive you,” Jason mouths to him, giving him a nod.

“Did he say why he wants to see me?” Scott asks.

“No, he didn’t,” Coach answers. “I thought you two might be close, or something...”

Quite the opposite. The rest of the guys kind of snort under their breath because it’s almost laughable.

“Do you want me to tell him you can’t make it?” Coach asks.

Scott swallows hard, meeting the guys’ eyes nervously. “No, I-I’ll be there. Thanks, Coach.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Coach asks Scott to wait a couple of hours before coming; apparently Rhett had fallen asleep. He texts Jason when he wakes again.

It’s around 6:00 when Jason drops him off at the hospital. The plan is for Scott to just take an Uber back.

He’s nervous as he rides the elevator up to the fifth floor. He follows the signs for the room number that Coach had given him. When he approaches, he sees Coach standing outside the room, holding his phone up to his ear.

“Hey, Keene,” he greets and hangs up the phone. “Thanks for coming back in. I’m still trying to get ahold of Rhett’s dad. I can’t reach him.” He nods to the door, and then hits redial on his phone. “You can go on in. He’s awake.”

“Okay, thanks,” Scott says, then nudges the door open, giving it a little knock as he does. He pulls in a deep breath as he takes in the scene in front of him.

Rhett is propped up in the hospital bed, pillow behind his head. His face is gaunt, with dark circles under his eyes; a deep contrast to his pale face. He’s hooked up to a machine that’s monitoring his vitals. He’s staring blankly at the TV screen in front of him (a new game has started; Scott doesn’t even know the outcome of their own game).

Rhett’s eyes flick to Scott as he walks in.

“Hey,” Scott greets him.

“Hey,” he croaks.

Scott feels so awkward. He swallows. “Um, how’re you feeling, man?”

Rhett doesn’t really answer; he just gives him a slight shake of his head. He looks close to tears.

“I heard your surgery went well,” Scott says.

“Yeah, that’s what they tell me,” Rhett breathes, his voice thin and weak. “Not gonna let me swim for at least 6 weeks though.”

Scott winces. “That’s what I heard, man. I’m sorry.” He licks his lips. “Just so you know, the guys are all just happy you’re okay. They’re not even thinking about swimming right now, okay?”

Rhett closes his eyes and sniffs. “Yeah.”

Scott takes a seat in the chair next to Rhett’s bed. He notices Erin’s purse draped over the arm. “Is Erin still here?”

“Yeah, I think she went down to the cafeteria for something to eat.”

“Oh.” Scott rubs his hands up and down his thighs, something he always does when he’s nervous. “So...”

“You’re wondering why I wanted to see you,” Rhett says.

“Yeah, I mean...” Scott stammers a little bit. “I just... I kind of thought you hated me.”

Rhett shifts a little on his side and grunts. “I hate everyone, Keene. D-Don’t flatter yourself.” He lets out a deep breath. “I need to talk to you, though, b-because I know you saw some stuff today.”

Scott blinks. He has a feeling he knows exactly what Rhett is talking about. It’s imprinted in to his mind. “Your scars...” he guesses, his stomach feeling sick over it.

“Yeah,” Rhett says softly.

“Rhett...” Scott breathes. It’s hard to find his voice. He doesn’t know what to even say.

Rhett shudders and a tear slips down his cheek. “Look, Keene, I-I don’t do that shit anymore, okay?” He reaches up to wipe his eyes. “I s-swear I don’t. So d-don’t... Don’t tell anyone what you saw. I already have doctors breathing down my neck about it. I don’t need any more fuckin’ grief about it.”

Scott frowns, still speechless.

“Are you hearing me, Keene?” Rhett says. “You tell anyone, and I’ll fucking kill you.”

Scott closes his eyes. “Yeah, I hear you,” he says.

They sit in silence for a little while longer. Scott is painfully aware that Rhett is crying. It’s quiet, barely recognizable, but there are tears slipping down his cheeks.

Scott feels out of place, like he’s witnessing something he shouldn’t. “Rhett, do you want me to leave?” he asks gently.

“Y-You can do whatever the hell you want,” Rhett answers through shuddering breaths. “I d-don’t care.”

Scott runs his hands through his hair, considering. Part of him wants to bolt out the door and never turn back. But the other part, the bigger part, is calling on him to do something else.

Hesitantly, he scoots the chair closer to Rhett and reaches out a tentative hand to take Rhett’s in his. As soon as he makes contact, he’s half-expecting Rhett to sucker punch him with his free arm for being such a sap. He feels Rhett flinch at first, but then he relaxes.

“This okay?” Scott checks.

Rhett takes a few shaky breaths before answering. “Yeah,” he whispers, and even tightens his own grip a little on Scott’s hand.

Scott rubs his thumb comfortingly over Rhett’s knuckles and reaches for the remote to turn up the volume on the game.

It’s understood that he’s a dead man if he mentions this to anyone, too.

Fin.

Chapter 4: i don't have time for this

Notes:

Characters: Adam Groves, Margie Groves, Rhett Malloy, Matt Jones

Summary: Adam wakes feeling a bit off the morning of his sociology final.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

Wanna grab breakfast before your test?

That’s the text that Adam wakes to the morning of his sociology 101 final. It’s from his sister, Margie. She knows he’s been worried about this test for ages. It was supposed to be an introductory class - an easy A - but his professor is tough as nails. Adam has never worked so hard for an A in his life. If he scores lower than a 95 on this test his 4.0 GPA dreams are done for.

I was going to cram some more he responds, knowing she won’t accept that for an answer.

C’mon, you have to eat she sends back. Headed your way now. Be there in 10.

Adam smiles down at his phone and tosses it aside. His sister can be relentless sometimes. He loves her for it.

He pushes himself out of bed and starts getting dressed. Rhett is still sound asleep in the adjacent bed, snoring loudly. He rolls his eyes. It’s a wonder how Adam gets any sleep at all, really.

He keeps the lights off, blinds closed because heaven forbid he disturb Rhett. He always has to walk on eggshells around him. He never knows what might set him off.

He quietly pulls on his jeans and a fresh shirt. He steps into his shoes and grabs his phone, coat, and backpack before slipping out the door. The fluorescent lights from the hallway nearly blind him as he heads to the communal bathrooms.

He splashes some water on his face to try and wake up. He feels exhausted. Grueling swim practices, coupled with Rhett’s snoring and the anxiety that finals week brings has left him feeling beaten down.

When he chances to look at himself in the mirror he sees dark circles on a pale face staring back at him. “Lookin’ good, Groves,” he mutters to himself sarcastically. He pulls his travel toothbrush out from his side pocket of his backpack and brushes his teeth haphazardly.

He hits the john before making his way downstairs to meet Margie.

~*~*~*~*~*~

They go to their favorite diner housed in the student union.

Adam usually loves the place. As a competitive swimmer, he can definitely put away some calories. But right now, as he’s staring at the menu, his stomach is doing somersaults. Eating is kind of the last thing he wants to do right now.

So when he only orders some eggs and a side of toast, Margie shoots him a worried glance. “That’s all?” she asks him, once the waitress has taken their menus. “You okay?”

He shrugs.

“Are you really that nervous about this test?” she presses. “Or is it something more? You look kind of pale...”

“I’m fine, Marge,” he tries to assure her. “I ain’t been sleeping too well... and yes... I really am ‘that nervous about this test.’”

“Adam, you’re the smartest person I know. C’mon, you never opened a textbook once in high school and you still got straight As.”

“Yeah, well, we’re not in rinky-dinky rural Texas anymore. The bar has been raised. Like... exponentially.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re gonna ace it,” she tells him bluntly. “It’s what you do.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Margie walks with him to the building his final is in. She insists and Adam’s too preoccupied with going over the three sociological theories in his head to question it. He’s vaguely aware of her going on and on about all the plans she has for their family when they go back to Texas for winter break.

She seems light as a feather and in high spirits.

Must be because she’s already finished with all her exams, Adam thinks. He can’t wait until the pressure is lifted and he can feel like that too.

Meanwhile, he feels heavy.

The food he’d eaten is sitting heavily his his stomach.

His legs feel heavy as he puts one foot in front of the other.

His head feels heavy. His backpack feels heavy. Everything is heavy, heavy, heavy.

Heavy, and numb.

His hands are numb - and not from the cold autumn air. His tongue has lost all feeling. His brain is in a fog. He feels short of breath.

He’s a frequent-flyer with anxiety and a master at hiding it - hell, he gets anxious before every swim meet, whenever he has to stand up for himself, anytime people are counting on him... - but this feels different somehow. Worse.

He’s not sure he’s ever been this anxious in his entire life. “Margie?” he says weakly and stops walking; he grabs ahold of her arm. “What?” she asks, startled. “Are you okay?” He shakes his head. “I-I think I’m gonna throw up.”

The words tumble out of his mouth before his brain had even put a label on what he was truly feeling. But now that he’s said it, he realizes that it’s true. It’s nausea, and it’s overwhelming. Dizzying.

He lifts his fist up to his mouth because he can feel the pressure in his chest building. Yeah. He doesn’t feel good. At all.

“Okay,” Margie says calmly after blinking away her initial surprise. “There’s a trashcan a few paces back. It’s okay.” She slides her arm between his back and his backpack and he lets her guide him there.

Thankfully, Hudson University has the cheap kind of trashcans, meaning they don’t have any flaps or coverings. It’s a blessing because he’s able to brace himself by leaning against the rim.

It doesn’t happen quickly. Saliva pools in his mouth and he lets it spill into the receptacle. He spits, strains once, twice, three times, but nothing productive happens. “Try to relax,” Margie coaches, hand on his shoulder. “If it needs to happen, it’ll happen.” “I-I don’t have time for this,” he groans, frustrated. Black dots are clouding his vision. “I know,” Margie soothes. “Here, let’s get your backpack off, A.” He lets her maneuver his arms through the straps and she drops the bag by their feet.

He’s still drooling, stomach churning persistently. How did he go downhill so fast? he wonders as Margie starts rubbing his back with one hand while palming his forehead with the other. He can’t remember ever feeling this dreadful.

“Adam, I don’t think this just nerves about a test,” Margie tells him reluctantly. “You’re burning up.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. He can’t. Because at that moment the nausea comes to fruition and he throws up hugely.

It’s awful and Adam still feels so sick after the first wave. He draws in a greedy breath before more liquid scorches up and out of his mouth.

“Okay, you’re okay,” Margie says gently. She shifts her hands so that they’re holding on to Adam’s shoulders, supporting more of his weight. “That’s it. Easy. Easy.”

He groans, bringing up mouthful after mouthful of sick, wondering if it’s ever going to end. It does end, eventually, when his body doesn’t have anything else to give.

Margie stayed by his side throughout the entire ordeal, trying to soothe him over the sounds of disgusted passerby. “Don’t pay them any mind,” she tells him, when a group of girls shriek as they walk past.

He’s probably hungover, he hears one of them say.

“Just breathe. You’re okay.”

Adam gulps in some air then wipes his mouth. “S-Sorry Marge...”

“A, come on. It’s me. You don’t have to apologize to me.” She runs her fingers through his hair.

“This is so embarrassing.”

“It’s a big campus, bro. You’ll probably never see these people again.” “Still.”

Margie pats his back sympathetically. “You feel okay enough to move? There are some benches in front of your building...”

He swallows hard, nodding hesitantly.

So she bends down and slings his backpack over her shoulder, then peels him away from the trash can.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“What are you going to do about your exam?”

Adam is savoring how good it feels to be sitting down when Margie brings him back to the main event. He has an arm wrapped around his stomach, eyes closed, the cold autumn breeze cooling his warm face...

“What can I do?” he grumbles. “I have to take it.”

“But you’re sick!”

He opens his bleary eyes to look at her. “I just want to get it over with.” If he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t even care what he scores on it anymore. He just wants it done, 4.0 GPA be damned. “I don’t know if my professor offers make-ups anyway...”

“Well, you could ask. I’ll go with—”

“It’s fine, Margie,” he interrupts tiredly.

“What if you start feeling really bad again?”

“I’ll find a desk by the door. Make a run for it if I have to.”

Margie bites down on her lip. It’s clear she doesn’t like it, but she relents. “Okay,” she sighs. “You have about ten minutes before it starts. Do you want me to walk in with you?”

“No, I think I’ll be okay. I feel a little better now.” She gives him a doubtful look.

“Honest,” he emphasizes, and means it. He’s had a couple of sips of water from his water bottle and it hasn’t sent his stomach on another rampage. Yet.

“Okay. I’ll wait out here. I’m gonna call Matt and see if he can come pick us up when you’re done.”

“That would be amazing,” Adam breathes as he pushes himself up - with great effort - from the bench. He can’t even fathom the long walk back to the dorms right now. “Thanks, Margie.”

He’s so thankful for her it’s insane.

She stands up with him and helps him thread his arms through the straps of his backpack. “Of course, A. Good luck.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

The exam is a blur.

Adam praises the heavens that the test is multiple choice only because he doesn’t think he could string together a coherent thought right now, let alone write one down in short answer or essay form.

But he keeps narrowing four of the answers down to two, unsure of which answer to fill in on his Scantron sheet. The nausea in gut makes him not care in the slightest and he just picks one. He wants out of here. It’s stuffy and hot and his stomach is churning and he’s only on question 42 out of— he flips to the back page. — 100?!

The realization that he’s not even halfway yet makes him want to throw up again. He sets his pencil down and rests his head on the desk. He wraps his arm around his stomach and just breathes for a moment, willing the reburgeoning nausea away.

The deep breaths help and the nausea fades minutely. Enough for Adam to blink away his fatigue and haze of sickness and get back into the test.

He’s typically a very deliberate test-taker, but right now he’s not even thinking twice as he skims question after question and fills in his best guess. He’s vaguely aware that he’s broken out into a cold sweat. His hands feel numb again.

He picks up his pace. He needs out of here.

He gets to the last question and fills in the first answer that made even an iota of sense. He doesn’t have time to bother checking his work.

It’s happening again.

He hastily makes his way to his feet, slinging his backpack over his shoulder and grabbing his Scantron sheet to turn it in at the front of the room. He’s the first in the classroom to be finished - something that would normally freak him out - but he just doesn’t care. He sets the Scantron sheet down on his professor’s desk and half walks, half runs out of the classroom.

He doesn’t look back.

The bathrooms are thankfully located across the hall. He makes a beeline for them, and closes himself in the nearest stall.

He gets sick almost immediately.

~*~*~*~*~*~

By the time Adam picks himself off the floor, his entire body is trembling from exertion. He makes his way to the front of the building, blinking away dizziness. He just wants to go to sleep and never wake up.

Matt, a junior and the backup QB for their football team, who has been spending way too much time with his sister if you were to ask Adam’s opinion, is sitting on the bench with Margie, arm wrapped around her shoulders.

But Adam doesn’t care right now. He’s never been happier to see Matt in his life. Because Matt lives off-campus. Which means Matt has a car. Which means Adam has a ride back to his bed.

“Adam, there you are!” Margie says, jumping up to meet him at the base of the steps. “Are you okay? How’d it go?”

He just shakes his head. He feels like crying.

Margie grabs a hold of his elbow. “You were sick again, weren’t you?” she asks lowly as Matt appears behind her.

“Yeah,” Adam breathes. He glances at Matt. “Thanks for coming to pick me up, man.”

“No problem, Groves,” Matt says kindly, taking ahold of Adam’s other elbow. “Let’s get you home.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

When they get back to his dorm, Rhett is thankfully nowhere to be found. He probably had a final today, too.

So Adam is able to sleep like the dead.

Margie and Matt stay with him, watching Hallmark Christmas movies on the dingy TV set their dad had let him have.

Adam sleeps for six hours.

When he wakes, Margie and Matt are still cuddled up on the futon. It’s dark out, now. And Rhett? Well, he’s back, and he’s joined them.

Adam sits up lazily. “Never pegged you as a Hallmark man, Molloy,” he croaks out.

“It’s not my fault your little posse refused to leave your side,” Rhett says with a snarl. “They hid the remote from me.”

Margie winks at Adam.

“How’re you feeling, Groves?” Matt asks, handing the remote over to Rhett to appease him.

“Better. I think.” No nausea at the moment. He nudges the covers off. “You guys didn’t have to stay.”

“Matt ran out and got you some ginger ale and saltines,” Margie tells him. “And you got some emails while you were asleep. Your phone kept going off.”

Adam freezes. “Ugh, one of them is probably my grade from my final today,” he groans. “Gaines said we’d get them back day-of since the machine can grade them so quick.”

“Well, look and see what you got!”

Adam sighs. “Fine.” He opens his emails up on his phone and scrolls to see the one sent from his sociology professor. He closes his eyes as he clicks on it, then opens just one eye to take a peek at his score.

He’s speechless. Can’t stop staring at it. Margie winces. “That bad, huh?”

Adam wets his lips. “Uh. No, actually. I... I got a 98.”

“What?!” Margie exclaims and jumps up. She throws a pillow at him. “Oh my gosh, A, I told you you would ace it!”

Matt laughs. “He would’ve had to get a 100 to ‘ace’ it,” he tells her.

“Well, whatever!” Margie says, and smacks his arm with the back of her hand. “Close enough!” She goes and sits down on the edge of the bed beside her brother and gives him a big hug. “I’m so proud of you. You got the A!”

Adam hugs her back, feeling lighter than he has all semester. “Thanks, sis,” he says, smiling into hair.

Despite everything, he got the A.

“Fuckin’ nerd,” Rhett mumbles under his breath.

And Adam’s smile grows even wider.

Fin.

Chapter 5: built in brothers

Notes:

Characters: Phil Lammers, Dean Sutton

Summary: He's probably just dehydrated.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

Philip is dripping with sweat. Positively dripping.

One more rep. Just one more rep. He breathes in as he lowers the bar to his chest, then exhales as he pushes it back up.

Oh, gosh.

He gets stuck around halfway up, arms trembling like crazy. “You got this, man,” Dean Sutton, his weight partner, encourages. His hands are hovering around the bar to spot him. “C’mon.”

Phil gives it his all, but it’s not happening. In fact, despite all his efforts, the bar is lowering back to his chest. “I can’t,” he chokes out. “Take it.”

Dean grabs the bar and pulls it up for him, placing it easily back on the rack. “You alright, Lammers?” he asks. “I don’t usually need to help you. We haven’t even gone up in weight yet.”

Philip blinks away the black dots that are dancing in front of his eyes and sits up. “Yeah, I dunno,” he pants. He hates that he’s being ridiculed by an upperclassman. “Everything feels like a struggle today.” He lifts up the bottom of his shirt to wipe the sweat off his brow.

“Want me to get Coach?” Dean offers. “You look like you don’t feel good, man.”

Phil wants to just brush the comment off, but the truth is, he’s starting to admit to himself that he’s under the weather. He’s felt off all day, and right now his stomach is sour and he suspects he’s running a fever. He shakes his head anyway. “We only have box jumps left. I can make it.”

“Okay,” Dean says unsurely. “You just look kind of... gray.”

“I’m fine.” He’s probably just dehydrated.

Coach Luke’s whistle sounds; their cue to rotate stations.

“Hey, I’ll go first,” Dean says. “Get some water, okay?”

Phil nods. “‘Kay. Thanks, man,” he says gratefully. Dean usually pulls rank and makes him go first. They’re supposed to see how many 24-inch box jumps they can do in three minutes with the goal being to get over 100, so any extra rest is helpful.

Phil bends down to pick his water bottle up, then stands from the bench. His stomach somersaults and he swallows hard, trying to keep the nausea at bay. He makes note of the trashcan closet to the box jump station, hoping he doesn’t have to use it.

He leans against the wall and sips on his water while he watches Dean effortlessly jump up and down from the large padded box. He makes it to 100 easily.

An overwhelming sense of dread washes over Phil when Coach blows his whistle for them to switch. His body feels so heavy. He’s not sure he’ll be able to even lift his feet off the ground.

He doesn’t quite make it to 100, but he does pull off quite a few more jumps than he thought possible. The water in his stomach sloshes sickeningly and his head pounds with every jump, but he makes it the full three minutes. The longest three minutes of his life.

That final whistle has never sounded so good. Philip slides to the floor to rest his back against the side of the box the second he hears it. He blinks away the black orbs in his vision. He’s dizzy and feels cold all over. His T-shirt is clinging to his wet, sweaty skin.

“Lammers, hey,” Dean says gently, kneeling down in front of him. He nudges his shoulder. “You good? Here, have some more water.”

Philip runs his hands through his hair and blinks up at him. “Yeah,” he breathes. He takes his water bottle that Dean is holding out to him. “Just got a little dizzy for a second.” He takes a sip of the water. “Thanks,” he adds.

“You guys okay over here?” Coach Luke asks. Once that last whistle sounds, they’re supposed to start sanitizing their stations and spreading out to stretch.

“Phil’s not feeling well,” Dean answers for him.

“I’m fine,” Phil insists, feeling his face flush with embarrassment under their scrutiny. “Just got a little lightheaded.”

Coach Luke frowns at him. “You’re looking pretty pale, Lammers. Sutton, will you take him into my office? The A/C is going full blast and there are some bottles of Gatorade in the mini fridge. You look like you could use some electrolytes, kid. I’ll come check on you guys after the huddle.”

“Sure, Coach,” Dean says. “You think you can stand, Phil?” Phil nods, but lets Dean help pull him up to standing anyway.

Next thing he knows he’s sitting in Coach Luke’s desk chair, a half-drained Gatorade bottle in his hand. He doesn’t really remember drinking it.

“Dude, you are out of it.” Dean states the obvious. He’s sitting across the desk from him. “You gonna be able to come to the Thank-You-Thon tonight?”

Phil blinks. “The what?”

“The Thank-You-Thon. Remember you signed up for it last month? It’s tonight.”

Oh. Right. A night when athletes call all of the University’s biggest sponsors to thank them for giving them the opportunity to compete at their sport on a college level. Each team was supposed to send representatives from each class. Philip had volunteered for the freshmen. Dean had volunteered for the juniors.

“You forgot, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” Phil sighs.

“Maybe someone else can go in your place,” Dean suggests. “Groves maybe?”

Phil shakes his head. “He has class tonight.” He rubs his hands over his face. “It’s fine. I’m already feeling better. I can go.”

He’s not lying. He does feel a little better now that he has some electrolytes pumping through his veins. Meaning he doesn’t feel like he’s about to pass out.

A step in the right direction.

Dean studies his face. “You are getting some of your color back,” he allows. “You think you just got dehydrated or something?”

Phil nods. “Yeah, I reckon.”

He does still have a little nausea swirling around in his gut. Something he’s planning to ignore for the rest of the evening.

~*~*~*~*~*~

He walks with Dean and the other two volunteers from the swim team over to the football stadium where the Thank-You-Thon is being held. Dean is good buddies with the the senior swimmer, Jason, who had volunteered and they’re shooting the breeze a few paces ahead of Phil and Ben, the sophomore volunteer.

Phil is glad that Dean has stopped watching him like a hawk.

They gather in one of the conference rooms where the provided dinner is set up, buffet style. There’s pizza, casseroles, pasta salad, steamed vegetables, potatoes, grilled chicken, hamburgers, hot dogs, mac and cheese, fruit, cake, ice cream... really, any food they could possibly want. A lot of the teams are already lined up and putting together a plate. After dinner, the plan is to adjourn to the press box to make the calls to the sponsors.

“This looks amazing,” Ben says, licking his lips at the spread of food. “I’m about to go ham.”

“Me too, Jason says, grabbing four paper plates. He takes one for himself and passes the rest down the line to his teammates.

Meanwhile, Philip’s stomach is flipping at the sight and smells of all the food. He piles quite a bit onto his plate anyway, not wanting the guys to get suspicious. He’s determined to make it through the evening.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Lammers, what’s up with you?” Jason says suddenly. “You’re eating like a frickin’ bird.”

Shit. Phil had thought he was flying under the radar while the other guys stuffed their faces and shared stories about seasons past. Phil had only been half-listening, trying to laugh when they laughed.

But now he’s really feeling bad. Like he could puke any second. He looks down at his plate. He’s only been able to manage a couple of bites of potatoes.

He swallows. “Um...” he pushes his plate away. “I dunno. I-I’m not very hungry, I guess.” He meets Dean’s eyes nervously.

Dean raises his eyebrows at him, concerned.

“You look like you’re gonna hurl,” Ben tells him, rather bluntly.

He feels like he’s gonna, too. The nausea is overwhelming now. “Yeah, um... w-where are the bathrooms?” he stammers out frantically. He’s close to crying.

“Wait, really?” Jason says, concern in his voice, too.

Dean jumps up from the table. “They’re just outside the door, man. I’ve got you. C’mon.”

He lets Dean pull him up and and guide him to the toilets. He feels so weak and is having a hard time putting one foot in front of the other. His vision is fading around the edges. Slick sweat is dripping down his back.

But Dean gets him there in time, thank God. And not a moment too soon.

He closes them in the handicapped stall and helps Phil kneel down in front of the toilet.

The few bites of potatoes, the Gatorade, the small amount of food he’d forced down at lunch... it all comes up with a gush.

“Dude...” Dean says sympathetically.

Phil wants to say something back. He’s humiliated. Dean is the person he looks up to most on the team and it’s absolutely horrifying that he’s puking in front of him. But he’s too dizzy, too close to losing consciousness to form words right now. He drapes his arms over the toilet seat and rests his head on the meat of his wrist.

He’s never felt so sick.

His stomach caves in again and more liquid scorches out of his mouth.

“That’s it, get it all up. You’ll feel better,” he hears Dean saying gently. There’s a grounding hand holding onto his shoulder.

Philip doesn’t even have the strength to try and fight it. So he heeds Dean’s advice and lets the retches and gags roll through him. All he can do is pray for it to end.

He’s lost all concept of time, but eventually Dean tells him, “You’re empty, man. You’re done.” And then there’s a hand running through his sweat-damp hair. “Can you lift your head? Let me wipe your mouth.”

It takes a good amount of effort, but Phil does lift his head up enough for Dean to wipe his mouth and chin with some toilet tissue. So embarrassing.

“C’mon, let’s sit you back,” Dean says, pulling Phil’s limp body away from the toilet. He leans him up against the stall wall and Phil hears the toilet flush. He flinches when he feels a cold hand on his forehead.

He opens his bleary eyes and tries to focus on Dean’s face. “How’re you doing? You okay?” Dean asks him nervously.

And Phil wants to tell him he’s fine, because what kind of loser can’t handle the every-human occurrence of throwing up? But his vision is still swimming and he feels so weak, and he’s embarrassed and tired and he doesn’t know how he’s going to get off the floor, let alone make it the mile back to his dorm.... so what comes out instead is:

“I w-want to go home,” he whimpers, and tears spill down his cheeks. “C-Can y-you...?”

“Yeah, buddy, I’m gonna help you get home,” Dean says, and fishes his phone out of his pocket. “I’m gonna request us an Uber.”

“But... w-what about t-the Thank-You—”

“They’ll spread our list of sponsors out among the rest of callers. It really won’t be a big deal.”

Phil wraps an arm around his aching stomach. He hates that Dean is dropping everything for him. “Y-You don’t have to ride with me,” he tries. He doesn’t want to be alone right now, but he also doesn’t want to burden Dean any further. He can take an Uber by himself.

“You don’t even know which way is up right now,” Dean says bluntly, in a tone that leaves no room for argument. “I’m coming with, man. It’s okay, I swear.”

Dean’s unwavering generosity makes Philip even more emotional, so he squeezes his eyes closed and lets out a shuddering breath. He wishes he could stop crying.

“An Uber will be here 15 minutes,” Dean tells him. “So we can sit here for a while longer. Try to settle down a little, huh? You’re shaking, man.”

“S-Sorry,” Philip mumbles.

“No, it’s okay,” Dean tells him, and rests a calming hand on his knee. “Just take some deep breaths. You’re gonna be fine, Lammers. I got you, okay?”

Philip nods and tries to focus on his breathing.

Meanwhile, Dean calls Jason to let him know they’ll be leaving, and through his fog of sickness and misery, Phil catches some of the conversation.

Yeah, he’s pretty sick. I think he’s running a fever...

I’m gonna ride with him, make sure he gets back okay.

Yeah, just let ‘em know....

Thanks, Jay.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Where’s your roommate?” Dean asks when he opens the door to Phil’s dorm room. He’d insisted on walking him to his room after they’d left the Uber.

“He has class until 8:00,” Phil answers. He eyes his bed longingly. “Bio lab, I think.”

“Okay. Do you want me to stay with you until he gets back?” Dean asks. He guides Phil to the bed so he can sit down.

Philip shakes his head. “No, man, that’s okay. You’ve done more than enough already.”

Dean shrugs it off. “We’re teammates, dude. Built-in brothers. It was nothing.” He licks his lips. “You gonna be okay?”

Philip swallows down the emotion that’s rising in his throat again. He’s an only child. He’s never had a brother before. He nods. “I’m about to sleep so hard.”

Dean laughs. “Yeah, I bet.” He puts Phil’s water bottle on his nightstand, then pulls the trashcan over to the side of the bed. “Hey, I texted Coach Jennings to let him know what’s going on with you. He said to take the day off of practices tomorrow, but he wants you to check in with the trainer sometime tomorrow morning.”

Phil yawns, then nods. “Okay. Thanks, Dean.”

“Anytime. Feel better, bro.”

Fin.

Chapter 6: unready

Notes:

Characters: Scott Keene, Phil Lammers

Summary: Scott feels a bit “off” one Sunday morning.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

Philip wakes early Sunday morning, a good half hour before his alarm goes off.

He’s actually excited to get up and go to church, which is something he never thought he’d be excited about. Ever.

Scott had asked if he wanted to come to a service with him six weeks ago, and Phil had obliged. He didn’t have anything better to do that particular Sunday morning, and Scott was always attending swim meets and hanging out with Phil’s teammates, but Phil had never reciprocated. He jumped at the chance to do something in Scott’s territory, even if it meant stepping outside of his comfort zone.

Phil’s parents raised him to believe that there was a Higher Power, and Phil had always believed in Heaven and Hell, but he was never exposed to religion in the traditional sense, like going to church. A good chunk of his Sundays growing up were spent in natatoriums at swim meets.

“I’ve never really been to church before,” he told Scott. “Does that matter?” The only time he could think of ever setting foot in a church was when a friend of the family got married. And he’d attended one Christmas Eve service with a girlfriend his junior year of high school.

“That doesn’t matter at all,” Scott assured him. “I’m glad you’re coming.”

Philip was glad too. He’d enjoyed it more than he thought he would, and has returned every week since. He’s not entirely sure where his beliefs lie with God and Jesus and all that yet, but what he does know is that he leaves each service feeling more peaceful than when he entered it. And he can normally take something useful from the sermon and apply it to his own life.

So this Sunday morning, he grabs the clothes he laid out the night before and heads to the showers to get an early start.

When he returns to the dorm room, Scott’s alarm is going off and he’s sitting with his legs hanging over the edge of the bed, arms braced against his knees. Philip wonders vaguely how long he’s been sitting like that as his alarms blares around him.

“Morning,” Phil greets him over the noise.

Scott blinks and seems to shake himself. “Mornin’,” he grunts back. He reaches out to turn off his alarm while Philip opens the shade to their window, letting sun shine in.

Scott groans and wipes his eyes, then reaches for the nightstand to put on his glasses. “Are you already dressed for church?” he asks, blinking up at Philip dazedly.

“Yeah, I woke up early,” Phil answers. “Is that okay?”

Scott hesitates. “Yeah, just... I’m not sure I can go today.” He cards a nervous hand through his hair.

Philip frowns at that. It’s not like Scott to miss a service. “Oh. How come? Is everything okay?”

Scott shrugs, and looks down bashfully. “Yeah, I just feel a little off, I guess.” His voice is thin. Weak.

“You feel ‘off?’” Phil says, brow furrowing. He sits down on the foot of Scott’s bed. “Mind elaborating on that a bit?” he asks gently.

“I just don’t feel very good,” Scott answers and curls his arms around his middle.

“Is it your stomach?”

“Yeah, I dunno. I feel r-really weird.” Scott bites down on his bottom lip. He looks like he might start crying.

“Hey, that’s okay,” Phil says delicately, not wanting Scott to be upset. “Why don’t you go back to sleep for a bit?” he suggests. “Maybe some extra zzz’s will help you feel better.”

Scott sniffs but nods. “I just feel bad. You’re all ready to go.”

“I can get unready very easily,” Phil returns simply.

“No, don’t do that. Y-You should still—” Scott breaks off suddenly, and gulps hard. He lifts a fist to his mouth. Phil has never seen someone go so pale so quick. “Oh gosh, I’m g-gonna throw up,” he chokes out, and heaves hard.

Philip jumps up and leaps for the trashcan by the door. “Here, here, here,” he says shoving it over to his friend. He’s a split second too late for the first wave and Scott ends up with sick all down his front and lap. The second wave, thankfully, makes it into the trashcan.

Scott gasps for breath the instant he has a moment of reprieve. “Ugh,” he moans, choking on a sob that turns into a heave. More liquid sloshes into the can and Phil winces.

He puts a grounding hand on Scott’s shoulder. “It’s okay, man. Let it all up.”

Scott takes that advice to heart, and chokes up more spit and bile and stomach juices than Phil would’ve thought possible. Philip has to hold his breath to keep the sights and smells from making him gag, too.

But he doesn’t dare leave his side. Scott is crying and so, so sick and Philip just wants to help him feel better.

He rubs his hand up and down Scott’s trembling spine. “You’re okay. Easy, easy,” he murmurs as Scott’s efforts start to die off and he’s left panting and miserable. “Are you finished?”

“Y-Yeah,” Scott says through his tears. He spits into the can.

“That was a disturbing performance, man. Disturbing, but impressive.” Philip runs his hand through Scott’s hair, wincing at the heat coming off his friend.

Scott has his arms hovering above his legs, fingers spread out. Philip can tell he wants to cradle his aching stomach, but he doesn’t want to touch his soiled clothing. He’s shivering so much. “I don’t f-feel good,” he whimpers. Tears are still sliding down his cheeks.

“I know, man.” Philip reaches around him for his water bottle on the nightstand. “Here, rinse your mouth out, and then I’ll help you out of those clothes.”

Philip guides his hand to take a sip of water, then raises the can up to his mouth so he can spit it back out.

Scott’s entire body is trembling as Phil pulls his soiled T-shirt over his head, making sure not to get any of the sick in Scott’s hair. Then he pulls Scott into standing, letting him lean against his shoulder, while he pulls his shorts down around his hips.

“This is so embarrassing,” Scott groans into the crevice of his neck.

“No, hey. You don’t need to be embarrassed,” Phil tells him gently, as he lowers Scott back down to the bed. “It’s just me.” He grabs some sweats from Scott’s drawer. “You ready to put these on?” he asks. “Or do you want to walk down to the showers to rinse off? Maybe warm up a little?”

“I just want to go back to sleep,” Scott answers weakly.

“Okay, you got it, bro.” So Philip helps Scott thread his limbs through the fresh pair of sweats, then helps him lay back down. He pulls the blankets up around Scott’s shivering form.

“Thanks, Phil, for... you know...” Scott says, meeting his eyes awkwardly, but genuinely.

“‘Course, man.”

“Sorry I made you miss church,” he adds.

“You didn’t,” Phil says brightly. “They stream the service online, remember?”

“Are you going to watch it?” Scott asks with raised eyebrows.

“Sure,” Philip shrugs. “Why not?”

Scott burrows under the blankets further and curls into himself. He yawns. “Wow, that’s some dedication right there. You can give me the spark notes from the sermon when I wake up.”

Phil smiles. “Yeah, I’ll do that. Get some rest, man."

Fin.

Chapter 7: proper sick

Notes:

Characters: Scott Keene, Phil Lammers, Adam Groves, Porter Jones

Summary: The boys navigate a broken down car and a poor, sick Scott.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

“That was such a good game,” Phil says, probably for the fifth time since they got back in the car.

“Hell yeah, it was,” Porter says. “I’m so glad you talked us into going, man.”

“Totally worth it,” Adam agrees.

Phil is still coming down from the high that the game left him with. A 49-yard field goal in double overtime will do that to a guy. “Did you have fun, Scott?” He takes his eyes off the road briefly to glance at Scott in the passenger seat. He’s been awfully quiet.

“Yeah, a lot of fun,” Scott answers softly. “I never knew I’d end up liking football so much.”

Philip grins to himself. He had made it his own personal mission to get Scott into football. “That’s awesome, dude.”

He had convinced his friends to make the drive four hours away to see their team play their biggest rival, Bennington University. It was a great time, but now they have the long drive back to campus. They probably won’t get back until 2 AM.

“What music do y’all want to listen to?” Porter asks. “I can plug in my Spotify.”

“90’s pop?” Adam suggests. “Let’s get some vibes up in here.”

“I’m down for that,” Phil says. “Scott?”

“Sure.”

And so the next hour is filled with bad, but extremely enthusiastic singing as the guys relive songs that they listened to growing up. It’s amazing how the lyrics have stuck with them after all these years.

There are few things that Philip enjoys more than a great road trip.

He notices that Scott isn’t really joining in on the singing, but doesn’t think much of it. Scott grew up on Christian rock; he doesn’t know pop culture like the rest of the guys.

Their fun comes to an abrupt stop when the car starts making a sputtering noise and starts to stall. Phil turns on his hazard lights because he can tell they’re not gonna make it much farther just based on rattling and sputtering alone.

“Whoa, that doesn’t sound good,” Porter comments.

“Phil, can you get over to the shoulder?” Adam asks.

“Uh, yeah, I think...” Phil says. “Damnit.” He turns the wheel and the car slowly rolls onto the shoulder of the highway. “Ugh.” He turns the key and the car shuts off. “Sorry guys.”

“I can take a look,” Adam offers.

They all pile out of the car and go to the front hood. Porter holds up his phone’s flashlight so they can see. But it doesn’t take long to see the problem.

“Uh, Phil, the battery’s fried, man.”

It’s true. The battery is completely corroded. That’s what he gets for borrowing his dad’s old Corolla.

“Shit,” Phil mumbles. “Let me call AAA.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

The dispatcher says they’ll be able to get to them in about an hour. Phil had walked a couple of paces away from his friends to make the call. When he returns, it’s just Porter and Adam standing by the car.

“Where’s Scott?” Phil asks.

Adam motions toward a tree a good 50 yards away. “I think he went to take a leak.”

Philip squints. Beyond the tree there is a wooden fence that’s surrounding a farm property. In the dim moonlight it looks like Scott is leaning against one of the posts, his head bowed. Phil frowns; his roommate senses are tingling.

“I think I’m gonna take a leak, too,” he tells the guys. “AAA should be here in about an hour.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

As Phil approaches Scott, he hears some sniffling and shuddering breaths, and his stomach sinks. “Scott, hey... what’s going on?” he asks gently. He joins him in leaning on the fence.

Scott swallows hard and wipes his eyes with his sleeve. “S-Sorry...” he stutters out. “I-I just... I feel really s-sick.”

“You do?” Phil says, blinking back some surprise. “What’s the matter? Is it your stomach?” He can see now how Scott is hunched over, one arm wrapped around his abdomen.

“Y-Yeah.” Scott gulps hard. “I’m really nauseous,” he moans. “I think I n-need to throw up.”

“Oh, gosh,” Phil says as he digests that. “Okay, well, why don’t we go back to the car so you can sit down?” He can see how much Scott is trembling, and the way he’s using the post to stay on his feet tells Phil that he’s disoriented. Dizzy.

But Scott shakes his head. “I-I don’t want the guys to.... I don’t want y-you.... You d-don’t have to stay w-with me.”

Philip frowns. “I’m not going to leave you in the dark, by yourself, when you’re sick, Keene.” He puts his hand on the back on Scott’s neck, wincing at how clammy his skin feels. “And especially not when you’re this upset.”

Phil’s words were intended to help Scott calm down, but it seems they’re having the opposite effect. He’s crying harder now.

Philip starts rubbing his hand up and down Scott’s back, squinting through the dark for someplace they can sit. “Hey, shh, you’re too wound up.” He wraps his arm around Scott’s back and starts to peel him away from the post. “It’s just me, okay? C’mere.” He guides Scott over to a tree stump and helps him sit down. “Lean forward, man.” he says gently.

Scott is breathing deeply through his nose; it’s erratic, uneven, and Philip can tell that puking is inevitable and in the very near future.

“I-I don’t want to—“ *gulp* “—throw up,” Scott moans, as he rests his elbows on his knees and lets his head drop into his hands. Saliva is dripping from his parted lips.

“I know, man, but I think you gotta,” Phil tells him reluctantly. “It might make you feel better.” He massages Scott’s bicep. “Let your body do what it needs to do.”

That’s all the coaxing Scott needs. He’s so sick that he doesn’t even need to strain much; the sick just comes up in numerous waves, and collects in puddles between his feet. “Guh...” he moans between bouts, burping and coughing lightly with each bit.

“That’s it, you’re okay,” Phil whispers. “I’m gonna text Adam to bring you some water.”

“‘Kay,” Scott mumbles, then vomits again.

~*~*~*~*~*~

By the time Adam arrives with the water, Scott is finished being ill. Now he’s leaned up against Philip’s shoulder, completely spent, eyes closed.

“Here,” Adam says, holding Scott’s water bottle out to Phil for him to take. “Did he get carsick or something?”

Philip shakes his head. “No, I think he’s proper sick. Pretty sure he's running a fever,” he answers. He can feel the heat through his thin jacket where Scott’s forehead is resting against his arm.

“Keene, why didn’t you say anything?” Porter asks gently; he came to check on Scott, too. “Came on really fast,” Scott mumbles. “God, I’m so sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Phil says. “Being broken down on the side of the road is the last thing you need right now.”

“Not your fault.”

“I know,” Phil says. “I’m still sorry. Do you think you can rinse your mouth out?”

“Mm.”

“Okay, here.”

Phil helps him tip the bottle into his mouth. Scott rinses and spits.

“Let us help you guys back to the car,” Adam offers on Porter’s behalf.

“Yeah. We got you, Keene.”

They sit vigil with their friend, and wait to be rescued.

Fin.

Chapter 8: you should sue

Notes:

Characters: Dean Sutton, Phil Lammers, Scott Keene, Adam Groves

Summary: Dean is struck with the worst stomachache of his life in a very public place.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

Late Saturday morning, after a grueling swim practice, Dean gets a text from Phil that reads: Hey, wanna grab some lunch and then go see that ‘Joker’ movie with me, Adam, and Scott?

Dean grins and replies: Are you only asking me because I have car?

His phone dings. Maybe. Another ding. And because I know you’re a closet Batman fanatic.

Dean laughs. How do you know that?

His phone dings again and a picture from Comic Con five years ago pops up. Dean had dressed as the Dark Knight himself.

Oh my gosh, how the in the world did you find that pic? I untagged myself!

All Phil replies with is a: 😏

I hate you, Dean texts.

You love me. You coming or not?

Dean sighs. Yeah, I’ll come.

Aces. Pick us up in 20. 😘

~*~*~*~*~*~

They go to the Hometown Buffet near campus. A swimmer favorite because they will absolutely get their money’s worth every single time.

Dean eats six plates worth of food, jam-packed with protein. He loses count of how many pieces of fried chicken he eats; his favorite thing to do is dip the chicken in barbecue sauce. And then he has two pieces of pie for dessert.

Phil and Adam protein-load too.

Scott, the only non-swimmer out of the bunch watches them in awe as they keep going back for more food. “You guys are unreal,” he tells them as he picks at his salad. “How can you eat that much and still look like Calvin Klein models?”

“Easy, you just have to swim 12,000 yards a day,” Adam tells him with a shrug.

“Yeah, nothing to it,” Phil says, then pops back up to go hit the desserts one last time.

~*~*~*~*~*~

They get to the theater almost 45 minutes early, which means they’re able to get the best seats in the house: middle center. Phil and Adam go to the concession stand to get some popcorn, but Dean and Scott decide that they’re too full from the buffet.

They play the movie trivia game that flashes across the screen while they wait for the show to start and more people file into the theater.

Dean had been wanting to see this movie for a while now, and is almost giddy when it starts to play.

Unfortunately, he only gets to enjoy it for about an hour.

About halfway in, his stomach starts to feel funny. The food he’d eaten at the buffet is sitting like a rock in his belly, causing his insides to ache. He shifts in his seat and slides his arm around his middle to try to alleviate some of the pressure building in his stomach.

That helps a little, but now he can feel it gurgle and whine against his arm as it struggles to digest. During a quiet part in the movie, it grumbles noisily, prompting Phil to whisper in disbelief through a mouthful of popcorn, “Was that your stomach?”

“Yeah,” Dean whispers back, face hot with embarrassment, He shifts again. He can’t get comfortable.

“You okay?” Phil murmurs.

Someone shushes them from behind.

“Yeah,” Dean answers as quietly as he can manage.

He thinks he is. Or will be. Once all the food he ate settles.

His stomach whines again, and in the dim light Phil gives him a concerned look.

Dean just shrugs and turns his head back to the screen, silently willing his stomach to calm down.

~*~*~*~*~*~

After 30 more minutes have passed, Dean starts feeling Really Bad. His stomach is churning now, his pants feel too tight and are digging into his bloated belly, he feels kind of shaky and weak...

Maybe he just needs to use the bathroom, he thinks.

During what he hopes is a slow spot in the movie - he hasn’t really been paying attention - he stands. He mumbles bathroom to Phil and then shuffles his way down the aisle.

He can breathe a little easier once he makes it into the theater hallway. The sounds and smells, coupled with being surrounded by a bunch of people had been making him feel on-edge, a little claustrophobic.

His stomach is aching terribly. He presses his hands into his abdomen as he scans the long hallway for the bathroom sign.

As soon as he locates it, he makes a beeline for it. Almost there...

“Dean?”

He freezes. He knows that voice. He turns.

“S-Stacy?”

His lab partner, the beautiful blonde he’s had a crush on for upwards of a year, is standing in front of him, arms linked with her boyfriend.

Oh God, this can’t be happening right now.

“I thought that was you!” she says happily. “Brian, this is my lab partner, Dean,” she tells her boyfriend. “Dean, this is Brian.”

Dean musters up as close to a genuine smile as he can. “Nice to meet you,” he says, and shakes Brian’s extended hand.

“You too, man. Just catching a flick before the big game tonight?”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, then gulps hard against a sudden feeling of nausea. He really doesn’t feel good. Everything is spinning. His ears are ringing.

“Hey, are you alright?” Stacy asks kindly, brow furrowed with concern. She reaches out to touch his arm. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”

He feels like he might, too. He feels so hot all of a sudden.

“Yeah, um, I-I’m...” he motions vaguely to the bathroom. “C-Can you excuse me for a moment?”

He doesn’t give them time to answer. He just turns on his heel and bolts into the restroom, swallowing down threatening dry heaves. He beelines into the nearest stall, unable to even dwell on the embarrassing encounter he just had, because it’s happening. He drapes himself over the seat of the toilet and liquid gushes up his throat and out of him as if on cue.

“Ugh,” he pants, and then it happens again, a good portion of his lunch coming back up like he hit a rewind button. The strain of it all is dizzying, and he’s left exhausted.

He’s shaking now and so, so dizzy. As he tries to get his bearings, there’s a knock on the stall door. “Dean? You alive in there?” Brian’s voice carries through the door. “Stacy asked me to come check on you.”

Of course she did.

“I-I’m fine,” he pants into the bowl. “J-Just sick.”

“No kidding,” Brian says. “That sounded rough. Are you here with someone?”

“Mm. ‘m here with s’m oth’r guys...”

“Do they know you’re sick?”

Dean is losing the thread. Why is this guy asking so many questions? It’s annoying. Everything is going hazy around the edges and he doesn’t feel good.

“I know you don’t feel good, man.”

Shit, he must’ve said that out loud.

His ears are still ringing and if Brian is still talking to him, he can’t hear him.

But he can feel him. He blinks. Brian’s in the stall with him, and Dean’s leaned up against the stall wall, and that scares him because he doesn’t remember that happening. Brian’s tapping his cheek.

“Stay with me... Dean! Hey!”

“‘m with you,” Dean mumbles, willing to say anything to get this guy to stop hitting his face.

When was he not with him?

He feels something warm and wet on his chest and looks down. Oh god, he’s puked all down his front. He doesn’t remember that happening either. He’s suddenly smothered by the smell. “What...?” he breathes, then dry heaves again, hard.

“Whoa, okay... here, here,” and Brian’s dragging him back to the toilet where he throws up hugely. Again.

Dean’s never felt this sick, or humiliated, in his life.

“You’re okay, man,” Brian says gently, hovering close but not touching. “Just try to breathe, yeah?”

Dean tries to take his advice, but the air is so stale and the smell is overwhelming and he just wants out of there. As he’s trying to verbalize this, he hears the bathroom door open.

“Dean? You in here?”

Phil. Thank God.

“Yeah, here,” Brian speaks for him, and nudges the stall door open.

“Oh, gosh...” Phil breathes sympathetically. “Dean, are you okay? What happened?”

“D-Don’t know...” Dean answers, voice echoing into the bowl. Because he really doesn’t. He went downhill so fast.

Phil and Brian switch places and Dean can feel Phil’s warm hand rubbing up and down his spine while he tries to figure out if he’s going to hurl again or not. His stomach is still aching terribly.

Phil and Brian exchange low words with each other while Dean hangs over the bowl, burping up more bile. He isn’t with it enough to focus on what they’re saying. He just wants to go home and sleep for days.

He isn’t sure how much time passes, but eventually someone pulls him away from the toilet and peels off his soiled shirt. Next he finds himself in a denim jacket - probably Adam’s, he realizes later - and he’s being walked out to his car while he holds an empty popcorn container to his chest in case he needs to throw up again.

(He does, twice, on the ride back to his apartment.)

~*~*~*~*~*~

He sleeps for hours - on the couch, because that’s closer to the bathroom - only waking to puke or piss. He’s vaguely aware that Philip is there with him the whole while, helping him to the bathroom when he needs it and holding a bucket up to his mouth when he needs to spew.

One time when he wakes up, he hears commentary from the football game playing in the background. Phil is sitting in the armchair next to the couch, watching it. Through terrible chills and nausea Dean groans, “I made you miss the game.”

“Hey, you’re awake,” Phil says, and mutes the TV. “It’s okay, man. We’re losing, anyway.” He leans forward and puts a hand on Dean’s forehead. “How’re you feeling?”

“My stomach hurts so bad,” Dean answers folding into himself. Heat rushes over his body and he feels the color drain from his face.

“You need the bucket again?” Phil asks cautiously.

Dean swallows. Yeah, he definitely does. “Yeah, I’m—” he breaks off with a heave.

“Okay, it’s right here,” Phil assures him. He helps Dean lean off the couch and holds the bin up to his mouth. Dean coughs and sputters into the bin before the nausea comes fully to fruition and he’s bringing up more bile and stomach juices. He’s straining so hard, but there’s hardly anything left at this point, so his efforts are mostly futile.

When it’s over - at least for the time being - he collapses back into the cushions. “Ugh,” he moans. “I-I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“I don’t know either, man. You’re worrying me. You’ve been puking for eight hours.”

Dean swallows and turns his head to meet Phil’s eyes. “I have? What time is it?”

“A little after ten o’clock. And you’ve been out of it, dude. This is the most coherent conversation we’ve had since we left the movie theater.”

Dean blinks. There’s no way... the entire day has been a blur. The fact that he’s lost that much time makes him feel sick all over again.

“If you’re still puking at midnight, I’m taking you to the ER,” Phil tells him.

“That’s fair,” Dean allows, and wraps his arms back around his aching stomach. “I can’t believe you stayed here with me.”

Phil looks at him like he’s grown two heads. “You’re sicker than a dog and your roommate’s out of town. Of course I’m gonna stay here with you.”

Phil presses some water on him and he falls back asleep.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When he wakes next, it’s early morning. His stomach feels wrung out and tender, but the nausea is gone, thank God. Phil isn’t in the armchair, and Dean hears some puttering in the kitchen.

He stands on shaky legs and makes his way there.

“Mornin’,” he greets his friend with a croak, and takes a seat at the table.

Phil is cooking up some eggs on the stove. “Hey,” he replies. “You’re up.”

“Barely. I feel like a zombie,” Dean tells him.

“Yeah, I bet. How’s your stomach?”

“Still there, I think...” he answers. “Nausea’s gone.”

“Thank God.” Phil echoes his own sentiments. “You can try some of these eggs then. If you want...”

Dean swallows. He figures bland, scrambled eggs are harmless enough. “Okay, yeah.”

Phil puts a small portion on a plate for him and takes a seat with a larger portion for himself.

“Want to know what was wrong with you?” he asks, passing Dean a fork.

Dean takes it and raises his eyebrows. “You know?”

“Yeah.” Phil fishes his phone out of his pocket. “Look what Scott sent me this morning.”

He passes the phone over to Dean with an article whose headline reads: Local Hometown Buffet Apologizes for Serving Expired Barbecue Sauce After Several Complaints of Ill Customers.

“Barbecue sauce made me that sick?” he asks in disbelief. Somehow he always knew it would be his downfall.

“Yup,” Phil answers, popping the p. “You should sue.”

“I think I just might.” He starts listing the offenses on his fingers. “That little bit of barbecue sauce made me miss the Joker movie, and made all you guys miss the ending. It made us miss the football game—”

“That we ended up winning in overtime, by the way,” Phil interrupts.

“WHAT?”

“Don’t worry, I recorded it,” Phil assures him.

“Ugh. AND it made me look like a total fool in front of my lab partner and her boyfriend.”

“Wait, what?” Phil asks. “Is this the same lab partner you’ve had a crush on for a year?”

“Yeah. She was there with her boyfriend yesterday. That’s who that random Brian guy was.”

“Ohhh, yeah, see, it was never clarified who that guy even was,” Phil ponders. “Nice guy.”

“Yeah, super stand-up dude,” Dean agrees, reluctantly. “Makes it harder to hate him.”

Phil whistles lowly. “Dude, that is rough.”

“You’re tellin’ me.”

"Yeah. You should definitely sue.”

Fin.

Chapter 9: double the (tummy) trouble

Notes:

Characters: Adam Groves, Cory Price, Margie Groves, Matt Harrison

Summary: Cory vists Adam at college. Things take a turn.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

“I’m glad you were able to come to campus, man,” Adam tells his cousin, Cory. “I really needed this.”

They’re sitting side-by-side on a bench in the quad, enjoying some gourmet hotdogs for lunch that they got at O’Reilly’s: the renowned walk-up hot dog restaurant. They’d each gotten the “Frankly Speaking,” which was a German dog: a bratwurst on a Brötchen bun, topped with sauerkraut.

And it was delicious.

“I’m glad, too,” Cory agrees, staring around at the beautiful colors of the quad in wonderment as he chews. “I can’t wait until next year when we’re all going here.”

He’s referring to Margie, too, of course. She hadn’t been able to join their last-minute get-together because she had already made plans with Matt.

Margie was heading over to his place to help him hang some pictures in his new apartment - she has a eye for that sort of thing. They were going to catch a movie after, his treat as a thank you.

She’d stopped by to a say a quick hello to Cory before heading over there.

“Can’t believe you’re ditching me for a date,” Cory had teased her.

“It’s not a date,” she’d tossed back defensively. “And we’ll meet up with you guys for dinner!”

The plan was for Adam to show Cory around campus, then pop in to watch a men’s varsity match at the Tennis Center.

Adam is glad. The majority of the swim team is away at an invitational in Mississippi this weekend, but since Adam hadn’t quite made the travel team, he had to stay back. Spending time with Cory will distract him from feeling bummed out about it.

Aunt Rita and Uncle Cal had dropped Cory off around noon on their way downtown for a funeral. The secretary at the school Aunt Rita subs for had passed away suddenly.

First thing on the agenda was O’Reilly’s hotdogs. Check.

Next they tossed the frisbee around on the quad, for a good hour and a half.

Now Adam is taking Cory all over campus, giving him a tour and pointing out the buildings that he has classes in. Cory is quiet as he takes it all in.

On their way to the last building, Cory stops him and comes to halt.

“Hey, uh, Adam?” he says, his voice shaking a little. “M’sorry, but can w-we sit down for a sec?” He motions to a bench a few paces ahead.

Adam blinks back some surprise. “Yeah, sure,” he says, putting a hand on Cory’s elbow to guide him there. “You okay?"

Cory takes a heavy seat and audibly swallows. “No. I r-really don’t feel good all of a sudden.” He meets Adam’s eyes nervously and wraps an arm around his middle. “M’sorry,” he says again.

“No, hey, that’s okay,” Adam tells him gently, and takes a careful seat beside him. "Your stomach, huh?” he presumes from Cory’s posture.

“Mm.” Cory hums an affirmative, eyes slipping closed as he lets himself relax into the bench. He does look kind of gray, with a sheen of sweat developing at his hairline.

“Do you feel like you’re going to throw up?” Adam asks, suspecting he already knows the answer.

“Y-Yeah. Maybe,” Cory says reluctantly, and folds his other arm around his middle, too. “Do you feel okay?” He opens one eye to look at Adam.

Adam frowns as he takes inventory and considers. “Yeah, I think so,” he says slowly. “You think it was the food?”

Cory lifts one shoulder up in a shrug. “I-I don’t know.” He sounds miserable, his voice weak. “It came on so fast. I was fine before.” He leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, head in his hands, which prompts Adam to place a comforting hand on his back.

He gently runs his hand up and down Cory’s spine. “Well, let’s just sit here for a bit, see if you start to feel better. Do you want some of my water?”

Cory just shakes his head.

Adam bites down on his lower lip, then reaches up to feel Cory’s forehead. He doesn’t feel warm, but he feels clammy. Yeah, he’s definitely not well.

“Ugh,” Cory gulps suddenly, then breathes deeply through his nose. He’s clearly very nauseated. Puking is starting to seem inevitable at this point.

Screw just sitting here. “Actually, maybe you should get to the trashcan, man,” Adam tells him sympathetically. There’s one a few paces to the right of the bench they’re sitting on. “You need help?”

“Mhm,” Cory breathes, tight lipped and paling further.

So Adam wraps an arm around his back and hoists him up. He tugs him over to the trashcan, his own stomach somersaulting as Cory gets immediately ill - like just being in the proximity of the trashcan was enough to get the process going - the contents of his stomach coming up in a violent gush. Then another. And another.

Adam’s hands are all over him, trying to provide comfort while also keeping Cory upright. The ordeal - though quick - sounded (and looked) rough, and Adam’s own gut is aching with sympathy as Cory pants heavily over the rim of the can.

“You’re okay. Easy, bro,” Adam soothes and starts rubbing his back again. “You finished?”

Cory nods and lifts a shaky hand up to wipe his mouth. “Think so.” He spits, then pushes himself more upright. “M’so sorry.” He has tears in his eyes.

Adam nudges him back to the bench. “What do you keep apologizing for?” he asks, taking a seat beside him. He offers his water bottle to him again.

This time, Cory takes it, and squirts some water into his mouth to rinse and spit. He sighs. “Because I know you were kinda down today about... you know, and I wanted to cheer you up. But instead I’m ruining the entire day.”

“You’re not ruining the entire day, Cor,” Adam says. “You could never, alright? I’m just sorry you’re feeling so lousy. I need to get you home.”

They’re over a mile from the dorms at this point and Adam is pretty sure Cory isn’t up for that kind of walk back. Besides, he wants to get Cory home home, because being sick outside of the comfort of your own house is essentially the worst thing ever. And the dorms don’t exactly have easy (or private) access to the facilities.

But he can’t call Aunt Rita and Uncle Cal. They’re at a funeral and have their phones turned off. He also doesn’t want to request an Uber; he doesn’t want to put Cory through the humiliation of public transportation if he were to throw up again.

He glances at his phone for the time. It going on 3:00. “I’m gonna call Margie,” he decides and relays to Cory.

“No, don’t,” Cory protests weakly. “You’re gonna ruin her date...”

“It’s not a date, remember?” And Adam knows his sister. “She’ll be mad if we don’t call her, Cor. Trust me. She and Matt are gonna be headed that way, anyway, to see that movie. She said it started at 4, right? So they probably haven’t left yet. It’ll be fine, I swear. This is better than risking you puking in an Uber.”

Cory reluctantly agrees. “Okay,” he sighs.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Adam asks Margie to meet them at the architecture building: the closest building to them with driving access. The short walk there leaves Cory feeling visibly drained, and in a comedy of errors, the benches surrounding the building have been freshly painted. So they can’t even sit comfortably while they wait.

Cory drops his head to rest it on Adam’s shoulder and groans. His arms are still wrapped tightly around his middle.

“I know, man,” Adam tells him gently, his own arms snaking around his belly as he supports some of Cory’s weight. He tired, too, all of a sudden. Heavy. And he chalks it up to sympathy pains, but his stomach feels kind of sick, too. “Let’s just sit down on the curb,” he suggests.

Cory battles some more intense nausea in the meantime. He dry heaves a bit, but it never amounts to anything of substance. Adam does his best to comfort him, but the sounds of Cory heaving and panting are making him feel kind of nauseated, too. So he ends up scooting a bit away, and reaching to pat his back every once in a while.

It seems like an eternity before Margie and Matt arrive, but when they do, a sense of relief washes over Adam. Cory will be home soon where he can rest and recover.

Margie exits the passenger seat to help Adam get Cory into the backseat. Once he’s settled, she hands him a plastic grocery bag. Cory takes it reluctantly. “Thanks,” he breathes. “And t-thanks for

coming to get us,” he adds, addressing both her and Matt.

“Of course, Cor,” Margie says, just as Matt says, “Sure, man.”

Margie closes the door and frowns at Adam as she looks him over.

“Are you feeling okay?” she asks with furrowed brows. “You don’t look so good yourself...”

Adam swallows and presses one hand to his stomach. “I think so,” he tells her. “Just... seeing him get sick like that...” He shakes his head, pulls a face.

“Yeah, you’ve never done too good with puke,” Margie allows. “Let’s get the kid home.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

As it turns out, Adam is not feeling okay. Not by any means.

A little bit into the drive, his palms start going sweaty. Pressure starts building in his stomach. Saliva starts filling his mouth.

Uh-oh.

He glances at Cory, who has fallen asleep, his cheek pressed up against the cool window. Margie is quietly helping Matt through some tricky directions; they’re on the highway right now and he needs to get over four lanes.

Adam swallows down the saliva, which just makes him feel sicker. Oh boy. He’s gonna throw up. And soon.

He holds it back until Matt is off the interstate, but it’s still a busy road, and it’d be hard for Matt to pull over, let alone in time.

“Um...” He clears his throat, hating that this is happening in a car that isn’t even his own. “Marge? I-I feel really sick,” he announces, his voice close to breaking. “D-Do you have another bag?” He brings a fist up to his mouth. His stomach is caving in as they speak.

Margie abruptly stops giving directions to Matt and whirls around. “What?” she breathes as she processes that. “Shoot, no, I don’t...” she says, her eyes wide. “Here, take the one I gave to Cory,” she instructs, pulling it from Cory’s loose grasp, effectively causing him to stir. She thrusts it into Adam’s hands.

“I’ll pull into a parking lot,” Adam hears Matt say as he fumbles to get the bag open, sick gulps and burps echoing throughout the car involuntarily.

The second he gets the bag open is the second Adam’s stomach releases its contents. He throws up hugely and forcefully. Vaguely, he’s aware of Margie’s hand on his knee as he gags and chokes up bile. Black dots are dancing in front of his eyes and his ears are ringing.

Through his haze of sickness and misery, Adam hears Margie talking to Cory. “Matt’s pulling over. You’re okay... it’s okay. We can clean it up.”

Cory must’ve gotten sick again too, oh God. Probably all over himself since Adam hijacked his bag. But Adam can’t even dwell on that because he feels so sick and it’s not stopping and the bag is getting heavy and what if it breaks?... “Guh,” Adam moans, and more vomit gushes out of his mouth and sloshes into the bag.

“Adam, breathe,” Margie is saying, squeezing his knee gently. “Gosh, I hate seeing them like this,” she says to Matt. “Yeah, right here, right here.”

Adam sucks in a greedy breath during a brief moment of reprieve. As he does, he feels the car slow to a stop.

Next thing Adam knows, he’s sitting at the rear of the car, leaning against the back tire. There’s a pile of sick beside him and he still feels so nauseated, but the cool air is helping ground him a little. He blinks and sees Matt kneeling in front of him, a supportive hand on his shoulder.

“You with me, man?” Matt asks.

“Yeah, m’with ‘ou,” Adam breathes. He’s lost a bit of time, so he’s sure that he wasn’t with him for a bit.

Matt breathes a sigh of relief. “Okay, good. I’m gonna get your water. Take it easy and just breathe for a minute.”

“W-Wait... where’s...?”

“They’re both on the other side of the car,” Matt tells him. “Your cousin’s feeling pretty rough right now, too.”

“I stole his bag...” Adam laments, leaning forward to hold his head in his hands. He can hear Cory retching quietly while Margie comforts him. The sounds almost get Adam going again.

Matt chuckles. “Yes, you did. I don’t think he’ll hold it against ya.”

“Sorry about your car,” Adam adds. He wraps an arm around his tender belly.

Matt gives a little wave of his hand. “Car is fine. Your cousin’s jacket, though? Different story.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

As Adam's stomach calms down a little and he gets his bearings, he realizes that Matt had pulled into a Walmart parking lot. Matt takes charge and disposes of Adam’s puke bag and Cory’s ruined jacket in the dumpster. Then he heads into the store to buy Cory a new jacket.

“And I’ll bring two extra plastic bags for the rest of the ride,” he says pointedly, teasing Margie.

She rolls her eyes after him.

“Your boyfriend is amazing,” Cory croaks once he’s out of earshot. “But he doesn’t need to buy me a new jacket. We need to get going or you two are going to miss the movie.” At this point, Adam has joined Margie and Cory on the other side of the car.

Margie snorts at that. “First of all, he’s not my boyfriend,” Margie says. Then quieter: “Yet. Second of all, we’re not going to the movie. We can’t leave your sorry asses to fend for yourselves. Not when you’re like this.” She points at Adam. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“Sorry, Margie,” he says weakly. “And sorry, Cor, for taking you to eat what were apparently poisonous hotdogs.”

“Ugh, yeah, I’m never eating there again,” Cory vows, rubbing his aching stomach, shivering from the cold without his jacket.

Adam scoots closer to him to warm him up. “Me neither.”

Fin.

Chapter 10: defenses

Notes:

Characters: Rhett Malloy, Adam Groves

Summary: He's so far from okay, it's scary.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting, emotional trauma

Adam wakes to screaming.

Bloodcurdling screaming.

And darkness. Pitch black darkness.

He throws his covers off and fumbles to turn on his nightstand lamp.

Surely, Rhett is being murdered. What else would warrant such a terrible scream? A terrible scream that’s not stopping and is accompanied by hitching breaths and the word no over and over. Adam blinks as light floods around him, mind going a mile a minute. What can he grab to use as a weapon? How is he going to get the attacker off of Rhett? If Rhett can’t take him, how will he be able to?

Only... Adam soon realizes that Rhett isn’t being attacked; not in real life, anyway. It’s just the two of them in the room, as it should be.

Rhett is in the throes of a nightmare, curled up into the corner where his bed meets the wall. He’s tangled in sheets and blankets, and he’s shaking. His screams have died down to whimpers now, as Adam stares at him.

Whatever he’s seeing, it sure ain’t good. Holy shit. Adam needs to wake him up.

“Rhett!” he says sharply from his own bed, knowing better than to approach him when he’s like this. Rhett’s a loose cannon when he’s aware and conscious. No telling how he’d be when he’s... not. Adam would very much like to avoid getting punched by an already spooked Molloy.

Adam claps his hands. “Hey!” he shouts, because Rhett is still whimpering and it’s tying knots in Adam’s stomach. “Wake up! You’re dreaming, man, it’s just a dream. Wake up!”

Rhett jolts awake then, his screams and whimpers ceasing immediately. He looks around the room wildly, his breaths still coming in hiccuping gasps.

Adam puts his hands out in a placating gesture, still keeping his distance. “You’re okay, man. You were just dreaming.”

Rhett stares at him, almost like he’s seeing through him. And then he deflates. “Fuck,” he breathes quietly, head knocking against the wall as he releases a fraction of his tension. “Fuck!” He covers his face with his hands and brings his knees even closer so he’s curled up in a ball.

He is positively trembling, trying to swallow down his surfacing sobs.

Adam bites down on his lip, unsure what to do. He cautiously slips out of his own bed and takes a seat on the foot of Rhett’s. “Hey, just breathe, man. It was just a dream.”

Rhett doesn’t acknowledge him; he just curls into himself further. He’s sobbing now.

“Rhett...?” Adam scoots a little closer. It’s agonizing seeing him like this. “Talk to me, man. Are you good?” He reaches a hesitant hand out to cup Rhett’s knee, trying to provide just a little bit of comfort.

But it has the opposite effect. Rhett recoils abruptly. “D-Don’t touch me!” he says harshly, his voice hoarse and shaking. “Do I look like I’m fucking ‘good’ to you?”

Adam holds his hands up immediately. “Sorry, sorry!” he says quickly, his heart shattering into a million pieces at Rhett’s tear-streaked face. “And no... you look...” he sighs as he trails off. Rhett doesn’t need commentary on how pitiful he looks right now. “What can I do?” he asks instead, desperate to help somehow. “Can I get you anything?”

Rhett ducks his head and kicks off his tangled covers. The T-shirt he’s wearing is soaked through with sweat.

“Space,” he growls as stands up from his bed on shaky legs. “Y-You can give me some fuckin’ space.”

So Adam backs off and returns to sit on his bed, just watching. Ever since Rhett’s surgery, he’s been talking more in his sleep. That is, when he sleeps. Sometimes, Adam will wake up in the middle of the night to find his roommate wide awake, reading or just scrolling on his phone. And when he does sleep, it’s fitful. Restless.

But it’s never been like this.

Rhett is still breathing erratically as he opens drawers to their shared dresser space, looking for a fresh T-shirt. When he finds one, he pulls off his soiled T-shirt and lets it flop to the floor.

He doesn’t put the new shirt on right away, though. Instead, he bows his head and leans against the dresser, just breathing, in and out through his nose, the fresh shirt balled up under his palm.

He’s trembling, his legs shaking under his weight. He is so far from okay it’s scary.

Adam glances at his phone to check the time. It’s a little after 3am. He needs to be up for practice in a little over two hours. His own heart is still pounding from the adrenaline of being awakened so suddenly.

He’s not sure how long Rhett stays like that. Unmoving.

Adam wants to say something, because he can’t just roll over and fall back asleep when Rhett is clearly still in distress. But at the same time, Rhett is the last person he wants to cross and he’s already told Adam to back off.

Between panting breaths, Rhett suddenly moans and drops his head into his hands, still leaning heavily against the dresser. Adam hears him swallow audibly. Sickly.

He doesn’t feel well, Adam can tell.

Screw staying out of this. Adam stands up. “Dude, maybe you should sit back down...” he says, trying to be as nonchalant about it as possible. He takes a few cautious steps toward him.

“M’fine,” Rhett growls, but his knees buckle as he says it and he flattens his palms against the dresser surface to right himself.

Instinctively, Adam reaches an arm out to help stabilize him behind his back. “You are not fine,” he tells him bluntly. He wraps his foot around the stem of Rhett’s desk chair and pulls it closer. “Here. Sit down, man, please. Chair’s right behind you.”

Rhett thankfully listens and sits down heavily, leaving his fresh T-shirt sitting on top of the dresser. He leans forward again, elbows on knees, face still buried in his hands.

Adam takes a few steps back to give him the illusion of space he’d asked for earlier. Then he crosses the room to open the window. It’s stuffy and he figures Rhett could use some fresh air.

“G-Groves?” Rhett says suddenly through shuddering breaths. Weakly. Desperately. Adam pulls back from the window. “What, man?”

He gulps. “Think ‘m gonna spew.”

Oh. Oh.

“Shit, okay. Lemme grab the trash—”

Rhett interrupts him with an unproductive heave.

So Adam all but dives for the receptacle by the door, and shoves it into Rhett’s vicinity.

Rhett grabs the bin and quickly makes good on his prediction, a wave of sick rushing up into his mouth and sloshing noisily into the bin.

Adam winces, his own stomach turning at sight and sound. He takes in a deep breath before the odor can fill the room and hesitantly approaches his roommate. “Dude,” he says sympathetically as Rhett heaves again.

Rhett groans. He hiccups, his breaths still coming in shuddering waves. He’s too wound up, can’t calm down.

“Rhett, you need to relax, man,” Adam says, knowing that’s about the least helpful thing he can say but it comes out of his mouth anyway. “Is it okay if I touch you now?”

Rhett nods minutely, just in time for Adam to pull his hair back before he retches again.

“Okay, you’re okay,” he says gently. He puts his free hand on Rhett’s back, and runs it up and down his spine while Rhett tries to collect himself. “Must’ve been one hell of a dream, huh?”

“Wasn’t... a dream,” Rhett huffs out, then spits. He pushes himself away from the bin, still panting. “Was a f-fuckin’ memory.”

Adam feels like he’s been punched in the gut at those words. The more he finds out about his roommate, the more his heart breaks for him. He swallows hard. “The car wreck?” he guesses with a croak. “Your surgery?”

“Y-You’d think, wouldn’t you?” Rhett says, voice flat. He runs his handsthrough his greasy hair and breathes in and out deeply.

Meanwhile, Adam is speechless at that admission. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s learned quickly that Rhett has had a tough life, based on the small bits he’s been able to piece together. But Rhett isn’t exactly an open book. His guard is usually up at all times, but this, right now... it’s a rare instance where Adam is seeing through the cracks. And Adam knows that he doesn’t even know the half of it. He’s not sure he wants to know.

“Rhett...”

But Rhett just shakes his head, putting his defenses back up. “Will you hand me my water?” he croaks.

“Yeah, sure,” Adam says quickly. Too quickly.

He grabs Rhett’s water bottle from his nightstand and passes it over. Rhett takes it and starts drinking greedily.

“Hey, take it easy with that,” Adam warns. “I’m fine,” Rhett tosses back.

“Yeah?” Adam says with raised eyebrows. He nudges the trashcan with his toe. “You through with this?”

“Yeah.”

So Adam pulls the bag out of the can and ties it off. He puts it by the door to be dealt with later. When he turns back around he finds Rhett pulling his shoes on. They’d been in reach.

Adam frowns. “What’re you doing?”

“‘M going for walk. Need outta here,” Rhett answers, head down.

“Okay...” Adam says slowly. “Well, let me come with you. I’ll just—”

“Not a chance. You follow me, and I’ll kill you,” Rhett tells him bluntly as he stands. He grabs the fresh T-shirt and pulls it over his head. “You breathe a word about this to anybody, and I’ll kill you. You got that?”

Adam’s heart is pounding against his chest. “Yeah, yeah, you’ll kill me. Got it.” Rhett threatens to kill him on the regular, but this time it sounds sincere.

“Good.” Rhett grabs his jacket, his keys, and tucks his water bottle under his arm. And then he’s gone.

Fin.

Chapter 11: 22 years

Notes:

Characters: Dean Sutton, Jason Rhodes

Summary: He's a virgin vomiter, if you will.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

Dean finds himself shooting hoops Sunday morning with some of the freshman swimmers. They’d texted him fairly early asking him to join them for breakfast and then to play some ball, and he’d been up so he decided to join.

His roommate, Jason, was still asleep when he left. He would have been invited, too, but sleeping in on a Sunday morning is a sacred opportunity for them because it’s the one day of the week that swimmers are afforded that luxury.

Jason doesn’t usually sleep late, so Dean figured he must really need to catch up on his zzz’s. He let him be and headed out to meet up the guys.

Dean checks his phone when they all pause for a water break after shooting the ball around for about an hour. He has a text from Jason, delivered just five minutes ago.

Hey, where are you?

He types out a reply: Rec center with Phil and the guys. You just wake up?

Yeah. Can I call you?

Dean frowns at his phone. He and Jason usually exclusively use text to communicate when they’re apart. A phone call is unprecedented. Dean nudges Phil’s arm. “Hey, I’m gonna step out and make a quick phone call,” he tells him.

Phil nods. “Okay, sure, man.”

So Dean excuses himself out of the noisy gym and calls Jason himself.

He picks up on the first ring. “Hey, sorry,” Jason greets him.

Dean’s frown deepens, because Jason’s voice sounds really weak. “Hey. It’s fine, man,” he assures him. “Everything okay?”

“No, n-not really,” Jason answers shakily. “Think I’m sick. I feel r-really bad.”

Dean’s heart sinks. “Yeah, you sound kind of rough. What’s going on?”

“I-I don’t know... my stomach feels weird and I can’t really see straight... Think I-I’m running a fever. ”

Poor guy. “Dude, that sucks,” Dean laments. “Have you thrown up or anything?”

“No... how will I know if I n-need to?"

“What do you mean? Do you feel nauseous?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never thrown up before.”

Dean blinks at that. “You haven’t?” He’s shocked.

“No. D-Do you think that’s what’s wrong with me?” Jason sounds so... juvenile. Scared.

“Yeah, maybe,” Dean tells him reluctantly. “Does the thought of eating repulse you?”

Jason audibly gulps. “Yeah.”

“And do you feel kind of clammy all over?”

“Y-Yeah. Fuck.” Jason pulls in a shuddering breath. Dean's pretty sure he's crying. He must feel really sick.

“Hey, you’re gonna be okay, man,” Dean soothes. “It just sounds like you caught that stomach bug that’s been going around. It sucks, but you’ll be fine, I promise. I’ll leave right now so I can come look after you.”

“No, y-you don’t have—”

“It's fine, Jay. I’m coming,” Dean tells him bluntly. “Try watching some TV until I get back; see if that gets your mind off of how sick you feel. And grab a bowl or something to keep nearby just in case...”

“O-Okay,” Jason says softly.

“I’m gonna make a quick stop at CVS, but then I’ll be home, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. I’m gonna hang up now, but you can call me back if you need anything, man.”

“Okay. Thanks, Dean.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean tells the guys he has to go, not giving much of an explanation, then all but sprints to the CVS where he picks up some supplies. The store is just off of campus on the way back to his apartment, so it doesn’t cost him much time. He wants to get to Jason as quickly as possible.

So he’s huffing and puffing by the time he unlocks the door to their apartment, the handles of a CVS bag filled with water bottles, Gatorade, some ginger ale, saltines, and a thermometer draped over his arm. He steps in the door, eyes immediately landing on Jason who is sitting tersely on the couch, arms outstretched with his hands bracing against his knees, mixing bowl in his lap, head bowed over it, taking panting breaths in and out. A rerun of Seinfeld is playing quietly on their television set.

“Hey, Jay,” Dean greets hesitantly, taking in a deep breath to try to slow his pounding heart from racing over here.

Jason doesn’t answer him. He can’t.

“You about to throw up, man?” Dean asks, taking some steps closer, heart sinking for his friend.

Jason spits a mouthful of drool into the bowl. “T-Think so,” he chokes out. “Dean—“ he breaks off, and jerks forward with an unproductive heave.

“Whoa, okay,” Dean says, springing into action, because yup, this is happening. “I’m here.” He sits down next to his sick friend and uses one hand to stabilize the bowl on his lap while the other hand settles in between Jason’s shoulder blades.

Jason groans and he drops his chin to his chest.

“Here, lean forward, man,” Dean tells him. “I got you.” He helps maneuver Jason so that he’s hunched over more, elbows on his knees, which allows him to hold his head in his hands, mouth over the bowl.

“I don’t feel good,” he moans.

“I know, Jay. I know,” Dean soothes, rubbing his hand up and down his spine. “It’ll be over soon. Just breathe and let your body do what it needs to do.”

Apparently, that’s all the convincing it takes, because not even seconds later, the contents of Jason’s stomach are spilling into the bowl.

He gags and his stomach caves in deep. His back arches, and he coughs. Then it happens again, and liquid scorches up and out of his mouth.

Dean closes his eyes briefly, feeling a bit weak himself at the situation before him. “That’s it,” he says, trying to sound unfazed. “Let it out.”

“Guh,” Jason gulps out. “Ugh.”

His body doesn’t give him reprieve for a long while. Every time it looks like Jason might be finished, another gush spills into the bowl.

He’s shaking, panting, miserable for what feels like an eternity.

And all Dean can do is offer a comforting hand on his back.

It does end, eventually, when Jason’s arms start to shake so bad that Dean’s afraid they’re going to give out. He’s only spitting remnants of bile out at this point.

“I think you’re done, buddy,” Dean tells him. “Lean back, huh? Before you faceplant into your mess. C’mon.”

Jason is pliant, too spent to help in the effort, as Dean gently pushes him back into the couch cushions.

“Hang tight for a second. I’ll be right back.”

Dean leaves Jason sitting on the couch while he heads to the bathroom to dump the offending contents of the bowl and rinse it out. Then he hurries back to check on Jay, praying he was right about him being finished spewing for the time being.

Jason is just as he left him. Hands cradling his belly. Unmoving. Dean sets the empty bowl on the end table by the couch, within reach, in case he needs it again. He crouches down in front of him and places a hand on his knee, cringing at Jason’s gaunt face. “How you doin’, man? You okay?”

Jason opens his bleary eyes into slits. “Just... peachy...” he croaks.

“Sorry you’re so sick, dude,” Dean says. “Can you believe you’ve been missing out on all this fun for 22 years?”

“Oh yeah, it’s a real riot,” Jason mumbles.

Dean pulls a water bottle out of the plastic CVS bag. “Why don’t you rinse you mouth out?” he suggests, offering the water bottle to Jason. “And then you should probably lie down. Try to get some rest.”

“‘Kay,” Jason agrees, taking the water bottle and timidly taking a sip to slosh it around his mouth. Dean grabs the bowl for him to spit it out in.

Jason opts to lie down on the couch, as the prospect of standing up and walking to his bedroom seems unattainable. Dean helps get him settled, but first takes Jason’s temperature with the ear thermometer he bought at CVS. Thankfully, Jason’s fever is low-grade. Then Dean grabs Jason’s comforter from his room and drapes it over his ailing friend. He makes sure he knows where the bowl is and leaves some water and Gatorade on the end table, too.

“Thanks for doing all this...” Jason makes a point to tell Dean, his voice thick with emotion. “I-I don’t think I could’ve handled this on my own. I mean, you just dropped everything a-and came home to take care of me a-and—”

“‘Course, man,” Dean interrupts him. “I could tell how freaked you were on the phone. It’s no big thing.”

“It is a big thing. To me,” Jason insists.

“Dang. You turn into a sap when you’re sick,” Dean jokes, never able to accept gratitude so forthright. “TV on or off?” he asks.

“You can leave it on,” Jason answers sleepily.

“Oh hey, this is the one where Seinfeld gets sick from that cookie,” Dean realizes. “That’s kind of ironic.”

“Mm, how come?” Jason wonders, voice thin.

“Because he was bragging about how he hadn’t puked in 14 years. His streak bites the dust in this episode, just like it did for you. But you had him beat by a mile, man.”

Jason huffs what could pass as laugh. “Yay me,” he deadpans. “Hopefully it’s at least another 22 years before this happens again.”

“Amen, bro,” Dean says fondly. “Get some rest.”

Fin.

Chapter 12: lowered inhibitions

Notes:

Characters: Scott Keene, Phil Lammers, Adam Groves, Rhett Molloy, Julia Wray

Summary: Scott attends his first college party.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting, underage drinking, non-con drinking

Phil was elated when he convinced Scott to come to the Christmas party that some of the swimmers were hosting before the rest of campus headed home for winter break.

But now, as he takes in the scene before him, he wishes he hadn’t asked Scott along. That, or he wishes he had kept a better eye on him instead of getting distracted by Julia.

Scott had been very timid when they first arrived with a few other of the freshman guys. Tense and shy, even as all the guys from the team greeted him and tried to make him feel welcome.

Danny had offered him a beer, which Scott had been reluctant to take until Rhett announced to everyone, “Check it out. Keene’s first beer!” which was the warmest welcome he’d ever gotten from Rhett.

So he accepted the beer and took a wary sip.

“You don’t have to drink that if you don’t want to,” Phil had said lowly, popping open the can to his own beer.

“I want to,” Scott insisted. “Might loosen me up, right?”

Phil clinked his can with Scott’s. “That’s what they say.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

The alcohol did loosen Scott up, and within the hour they’re teamed up to play beer pong against some soccer players who had shown up.

Scott is surprisingly good, too, which is satisfying to Phil because the soccer players have some foul mouths on them and are trash talking pretty heavily.

It comes down to the wire, but the soccer players pull out the victory. They rub it in their faces, too, flipping Phil and Scott the bird and making other obscene gestures as they retreat.

“I can’t believe you let those losers win,” Rhett gripes, scowling at soccer players as they gloat and high five. “Who even invited them?”

“Who knows. You wanna show them how it’s done?” Ben asks.

“Hell yeah, let’s do it,” Rhett agrees, and they’re off to challenge them to another match.

“So, your first beer pong game. Did you like it?” Adam asks Scott.

“Yeah, I actually did!” Scott answers. “It was really fun. Are there other games?”

“Yeah, let me tell you about Boom!” Adam says, and launches into a detailed soliloquy of the swimmers’ most beloved drinking game.

Phil knows the rules by heart, so leaving Scott under Adam’s supervision, he heads across the room to talk to Julia.

Julia Wray. They’d met at the rec center where they do weights. Julia’s on the women’s soccer team and is just about the prettiest girl Phil has ever seen. He’d invited her and her friend Cassidy to the party tonight.

He didn’t think they’d show, but here they are. He’d seen them come in about five minutes ago. They’d unfortunately witnessed the ending of their beer pong game.

“Julia, Cassidy, hi,” Phil greets them.

“Hi, Philip,” Julia says, twirling her hair. “So this is a swimmer party, huh?” Her eyebrows are raised. “It’s really chill.”

“Yeah, yeah, we’re pretty mellow around here,” Phil says. “Is that good or bad?”

“We like chill,” Cassidy assures him. “Soccer parties can get really out of control.”

“Speaking of which, watch out for those two,” Julia warns, nodding over to where the two male soccer players are at the pong table. “They overheard we were coming here, and just showed up. We didn’t invite them or anything. They’re assholes.”

Phil snorts. “Yeah, I got that impression. Didn’t even catch their names. What are they?” “The tall one is Dave, and the shorter one is Marco.”

“Well, don’t worry ladies, Rhett and Ben will put them in their place. They’re undefeated. Want a drink?”

“Sure, yeah,” they say. “Follow me.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

They find a quiet spot in a corner of the kitchen to chat while they sip on their beer. Adam and Scott join them after a while, and they just spend some time getting to know each other. Adam recognizes Julia from some of his psychology classes.

Julia is so easy to talk to, and she’s witty and funny, and tough. Phil is crushing hard. So hard that when Porter announces that they’re starting up a game of Boom, she and Phil decide to opt out so they can talk some more. Besides, Phil is feeling a little tipsy (which is weird, because he hasn’t had that much to drink), and figures he should sit this one out.

But Adam, Scott, and Cassidy decide to join in.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Did you see how rough that fucking nerd looks?” Marco snickers under his breath when he and Dave come into the kitchen for another drink.

“Fuckin’ hilarious,” Dave says.

And warning bells go off in Phil’s head.

Scott.

Julia reads his mind. “Let’s go check on him,” she says.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The soccer players were right. Scott looks rough. And no one is taking it easy on him as the game of Boom continues.

Scott currently has a ping pong ball and is trying to bounce it into his cup. But he’s not quick enough. He keeps missing and...

“BOOM!” Rhett yells, and slaps Scott’s cup to the floor. “Drink up.” He chooses a cup with a hefty amount of liquid and hands it to Scott.

Scott stumbles a bit as he takes it from him, and downs it quickly. His face is red. Too red.

Phil approaches him immediately. “Scott, I think you need to tap out, man,” he tells him over the commotion of the game.

“Hmm? What? No, m’fine,” Scott insists, slurring his words a bit.

“No, you’re not. C’mon, I think you need some air.”

Phil pulls him away from the table, while Scott protests pitifully. But he’s too uncoordinated to really put up a fight.

Adam, who had been really into the game too, decides to follow. “Is he okay?” he asks, following Phil as he guides Scott out the front door to have a seat on the steps. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize...”

“He’ll be fine,” Phil assures him. “Think he just needs to dry up.” He hopes that’s the case, anyway. Scott seems really unsteady on his feet.

It’s a chilly December evening, but they welcome the cold air. It had been getting stuffy in the house. Scott doesn’t even seem to notice the cold. He sits down heavily on the steps and the rest of them drop down beside him.

“You’re pretty,” Scott says, blinking at Julia.

She giggles. “And you’re drunk.” She stands. “Hey, I don’t know if Cassidy saw that we came out here. I’m gonna go let her know. I’ll be right back.”

Phil nods. “Okay, yeah.”

Julia retreats back inside.

“This s’what drunk feel’like?” Scott slurs.

“Yeah, man,” Adam says. “How do you like it?”

“I don’t... know,” Scott says. “Kinda... floating.”

“In a good way or a bad way?” Phil asks. He puts a hand on Scott’s back. He hates that Scott ended up drunk. That was not his intention at all. He really didn’t think the couple of beers and a few drinking games would cause him to wind up in this state.

Scott is frowning as he processes the question. “Bad way,” he decides suddenly. “Bad.” He hiccups sickly. “I’dn’t fl’good.”

“Shit, I think he’s gonna—”

Adam can’t even get the entire sentence out before Scott is throwing up between his feet, coating the stairs with sick.

“Damn, okay, you’re okay,” Phil soothes him, quickly wrapping his arm across Scott’s chest to keep him from pitching forward.

Scott heaves hard against Phil’s arm and brings up more liquid. His stomach is trying to purge itself of all the alcohol he’d consumed.

Just as he seems to have a break in the entire ordeal, Julia returns to the porch. “How’s he doing?” she asks, as Scott drops his head against Phil’s shoulder.

“Uh, not so good,” Adam answers. He has a supporting hand on Scott’s back, too. ”Can you bring him some water? He just threw up.”

“Sure, of course,” Julia says.

“Take it to my bedroom,” Danny’s voice tells her, and Phil cranes his neck to see him standing in the doorway. He must’ve come to check on his guest. “He can go lie down in there. I’ll bring a bucket."

“Thanks, man,” Phil acknowledges.

“Sure, let me give you a hand.”

The three, mostly sober guys help stand Scott up and guide him into Danny’s bedroom.

They make him drink some water and then have him lie down on his side, bucket by his head.

Phil’s a little surprised when Rhett taps on the doorframe. “How’s the rookie doing?” he says, just as Scott’s stomach heaves, and Phil has to bring the bucket up to his mouth. “Fuck, is he puking again?”

“Yeah, no thanks to you.” Phil winces as liquid sloshes into the basin and he pats Scott’s back comfortingly. “You’re alright, man. Get it all up.” He glares at Rhett. “He’d be doing better if you hadn’t ganged up on him during Boom.”

Rhett puts his hands up defensively (but Phil catches a glimmer of remorse, too). “It’s not my fault he’s such a lightweight.”

“It wasn’t you.” Porter appears behind Rhett. “Get this. I just overheard those soccer players saying they spiked the beer pong cups with shots of vodka. So Scott’s had at least five more drinks than we thought.”

“What?!” they all exclaim. “Seriously?”

“Hand to Heaven,” Porter says.

“What the fuck? They are such assholes!” Rhett yells. “I’m gonna fucking KILL them!”

“I’ll help you,” Danny agrees. “Let’s run ‘em out of here.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scott stops puking and falls asleep shortly after.

Adam, Julia, Cassidy, and Phil play cards on the bedroom floor and keep watch over him long into the night.

“I can’t believe you didn’t realize the cups were spiked,” Adam says to Phil.

“They insisted on using craft beer. If it had been bud light or something, I would’ve realized.”

“I feel like this is all our fault,” Julia sighs. “The only reason those dicks were here is because of us.”

“No, no,” Phil tells her. “We don’t blame you.”

“And, hey, at least Scott was having fun, up until... well. You know.”

“Yeah,” they all sigh.

“I bet he’ll never drink again,” Cassidy laments.

~*~*~*~*~*~

And when Scott wakes the next morning, he says just that.

Fin.

Chapter 13: halted momentum

Notes:

Characters: Phil Lammers, Dean Sutton, other members of the swim team

Summary: Coach Jennings hosts a team gathering at his home twice a year. Phil falls suddenly ill during a game of cornhole. Dean is there for him, like always.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

Coach Jennings has the team over to his house for dinner twice a year.

His wife Lorraine is a caterer and provides enough food - and delicious food at that - for the swimmers, which is no easy feat.

Tonight they’re having salmon and every side dish imaginable. And it’s heaven.

Chocolate mousse for dessert, and then they adjourn outside for lawn games, team building, and s’mores around the fire.

Dean winds up playing cornhole, teamed up with Jason against the team of Phil and Ben. The veteran captains vs. the up-and-coming leaders of the team. Dean and Phil are on one end and Ben and Jason are on the other.

Dean and Jason are falling behind quickly and need to redeem themselves. They’ll never live it down if two underclassmen beat them. Just when they get a groove going again, Phil says, “Hold on, I gotta go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back,” and he disappears into Coach’s house before Dean can tell him any different.

“Just we when we were on a hot streak, too!” Jason gripes after him.

Dean starts juggling the bean bags and shrugs. “He’ll be back soon.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“He’s for sure dropping a deuce,” Jason says after a good 10-15 minutes have passed. They’re all just taking practice throws at the cornhole boards while they wait for him to return. “He’s been in the bathroom a while.”

Dean frowns. “Do you think I should go check on him?”

“Nah, I’m sure he’s fine. C’mon, let’s just get someone to fill in for him,” Ben says. “Yo, Groves! C’mere.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Adam turns out to be amazing at cornhole and the game is over in the next round when he sinks all four bags into the hole. “Thanks fellas, I’m here all night,” he says, throwing up some peace signs and backing away to go return to his seat around the fire.

The rest of them are left with their jaws to the floor.

Dean shakes off the loss and decides to head inside to see if Phil’s okay. Porter’s on his way out the sliding glass doors while Dean is heading in. He has a water bottle tucked under his arm. He grabs Dean’s elbow, bringing him to a stop.

“Dean, hey. I was just coming to find you.” He lowers his voice “I came inside to go to the bathroom, but uh... Phil’s in there throwing up. He asked me to come get you.”

A pit forms in Dean’s stomach as he processes that. “What? Where?”

Porter motions through the kitchen and down the front corridor. “In the hall bathroom under the stairs.”

“Okay, thanks, man.”

“Sure,” Porter says. “I’m gonna let Coach know... oh, and this water is for him.” He pulls the water bottle out from under his arm.

Dean takes it from him and makes a beeline for the small bathroom, while Porter goes to let Coach know what’s going on. The door is slightly ajar, but Dean knocks on it gently to alert Phil of his presence.

“Phil?” he says softly, taking in the pitiful sight in front of him.

Phil is draped over the toilet, head resting on the meat of his wrists. He’s not currently bringing up anything other than mouthfuls of drool, but he’s panting heavily and clearly still very nauseous.

Dean crouches down beside him and puts a gentle hand on his back. “Hey bud, what happened?”

“D-Don’t know,” Phil stutters out. “I started f-feeling lightheaded while we were playing, a-and then I-I just felt s-so sick...”

Dean’s heart sinks. “Oh, geez, man. I had no idea you were feeling bad. You should’ve said something.”

“Thought it would pass,” Phil breathes, his weak voice echoing around the small room. He coughs, and then moans. “Ohhh--.”

...And he’s off to the races with another bout of forceful vomiting. His entire undigested meal is on rewind, and it sounds painful and miserable and Dean has to hold back some gags of his own as chunky liquid splashes into the toilet bowl.

Phil is still heaving hard, straining, even when his body has nothing left to give.

“Breathe, man. Take it easy,” Dean says, not knowing how to help, but also not wanting to leave Phil’s side.

Phil dry heaves until his body is so exhausted it all but gives out. Then he’s just hiccuping and burping, spitting out remnants of bile.

Dean pulls him away from the toilet, as gently as he can, and leans him against the wall. Phil’s eyes are closed and he’s swallowing convulsively. His hair is matted and sweaty. Dean brushes it out of his face. “You still with me, man?”

Phil opens his bleary eyes into slits. “Mm.”

“Okay, just sit for a minute. Breathe.” He reaches to flush the offending contents down the drain.

That’s when Coach appears at the door, clearing his throat timidly. “Lammers, how are you doing, son?”

Phil is positively white, any and all color drained from his face. He coughs lightly. “Feel really sick...” He lets his head loll against Dean’s shoulder.

“I can see that, pal.”

“Think ‘m gonna pass out,” he adds, his voice eerily calm for such a frightening statement.

Dean and Coach share a panicked look. Dean’s heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of his chest.

“Let’s lay him down,” Coach says promptly, and they work together to get him horizontal in the small quarters of the bathroom. Coach cushions his head with his hand against the tile floor. “Sutton, go grab some pillows from the couch, will ya? We need to elevate his feet.”

“Yessir,” Dean says obediently, and quickly hurries off to grab them.

Mrs. Jennings had apparently been close by, too, because she goes to get a bag of frozen peas from the fridge for them to put on his forehead.

It’s enough to keep Phil from losing consciousness, but it’s tough-going there for a while. Dean stays outside the door to give him as much air as possible in the stuffy bathroom. Mrs. Jennings is there, too. And Jason joins a few moments later.

“Is he okay?” he asks, peering into the small room. “Porter said he got sick..."

“Yeah, he’s feeling really bad,” Dean answers, his voice shaking a bit. His heart is just aching for the kid. “Can you drive us home?”

They’d all carpooled over here.

Before Jason can answer in the affirmative, Coach says, “That won’t be necessary. I’m thinking Lammers should stay here tonight. I want to keep an eye on him, and that’s an awfully long drive when you’re feeling sick to your stomach.”

Dean blinks. That makes sense. “Oh,” he says, nodding. “Okay, yeah.”

He relaxes a little, knowing Phil will be in good hands.

“Is that okay, Phil?” Mrs. Jennings asks sweetly. “We’ll set you up in the guest bedroom.”

“Yeah,” Phil breathes from his spot on the floor. He starting to get some of his color back. “T- Thank you, ma’am.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” she says kindly.

“Lor, why don’t you tell the guys to start getting ready to head home?” Coach says to his wife. “I think we ought to call it a night.”

“I think that’s best,” Mrs. Jennings agrees.

“Let me help you clean up,” Jason offers, and follows her outside.

“M’sorry, Coach,” Phil whispers. “I-I didn’t mean to ruin the night.”

Coach squeezes his hand, then glances at Dean who is still standing in the doorway. “Hey, Sutton, is your night ruined?” he asks.

“No, sir,” Dean answers.

“Huh. Mine neither,” he says. “You hear that? You didn’t ruin a single thing, kiddo.” Coach adjusts the frozen peas on Phil’s forehead. “I’m gonna let Dean sit with you for awhile so I go take care of some things in the spare bedroom, okay? You just take it easy for a bit longer, alright?”

“Mhm,” Phil hums.

So Dean and Coach trade places.

“This is so embarrassing,” Phil tells Dean weakly, once Jennings is out of earshot. “I don’t know why I got so sick all of a sudden.”

“I don’t either, man,” Dean says sympathetically. He puts his hand on top of Phil’s, trying to comfort him somehow. “You kind of scared me.”

“I know. Sorry.”

“I thought you were just trying stop mine and Jason’s momentum when you said you had to go to the bathroom.“

Phil smiles lightly. “Yeah, you were c-coming back on us. I had t-to do something.” He swallows hard. “I’m just v-very dedicated to my art of deception.”

Dean relaxes further now that Phil’s humor is shining through again.

“Well, your little act worked, because Adam filled in for you and sunk every single bag on his first turn.”

“Wait, seriously?” Phil asks.

“Seriously.”

“Damn. Sorry I missed that.” He makes a point to crack his knuckles, then says slyly, “but it was all part of the plan.”

Fin.

Chapter 14: worst possible company

Notes:

Characters: Phil Lammers, Scott Keene, Adam Groves

Summary: Scott gets some rough news; Phil wants to be there for him, but his stomach has other ideas.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting, death mention

“Hey, where are you going?”

Phil walks into his dorm room after practice Tuesday evening to find Scott packing a bag. His back is to him as he tucks some boxer shorts into his duffle.

Scott turns around at Phil's entrance. His glasses are askew and he has tears slipping down his cheeks.

Phil’s heart sinks. “What’s wrong?”

Scott slips his hands under the frames of his glasses to press down on his eyes. His shoulders start to shake and his sniffs. “M-My granddad died.”

"Oh, gosh." Phil crosses the room immediately to pull Scott in for a long hug. He’s only seen Scott cry on a few occasions, and this is by far the worst. He’s literally trembling. “I’m so sorry, buddy.”

He lets Scott take as much time as he needs with the hug. Scott buries his face in the crevice of his neck, and Phil can feel the wetness from his tears start seeping through his shirt. He tightens his grip on him, rocks him gently back and forth. Lets Scott be the one to pull away first.

Selfishly, Phil is a little annoyed. He’s exhausted to the bone and had been looking forward to having some food delivered, then crashing early and going to sleep. But now he has to deal with this.

And then he feels guilty for having that thought. Scott is his literal best friend and feeling inconvenienced by his granddad’s death is despicable. It shouldn’t feel like a burden. He should want to be there for Scott. He should want to help him through this.

He tries to blink away his fatigue and rise to the occasion.

“What can I do, man?” he asks into Scott’s hair. “What do you need?”

Scott sniffs again and pulls away. “I-I don’t know,” he breathes. “M-My parents are c-coming to pick me up in the morning, so I’m j-just packing. I’ll probably stay through the w-weekend. They want the s-service to be this Saturday.”

Phil nods. “Okay, man,” he says gently. Scott is really worked up. “Why don’t you take a break from packing, and sit down for a while? Catch your breath for a bit, yeah?”

Scott nods his consent and lets Phil guide him to their shared futon. Scott sits down unevenly and Phil joins him.

“M’sorry,” Scott mumbles. “I d-don’t know why I’m...” he motions to his face. “It was just unexpected, a-and my mom... she—” Scott takes in a shuddering breath. “T-This is gonna break her.”

You seem a little broken, too, Phil doesn’t say. He bites down on his lower lip. “When did you find out?” he asks softly.

“My dad called about twenty minutes ago.”

Phil swallows hard. “How did, uh...” he clears his throat. “What happened?”

“He had a stroke. My g-grandma found him.”

Phil’s heart sinks even further. “I’m so sorry, Scott.”

“T-Thanks.” He takes his glasses off so he can wipe his eyes with his sleeve real good. “You’re not going to the library tonight, are you?” he asks.

Phil frowns. “No, I wasn’t planning on it. Why?”

Scott swallows hard. “I-I just... I really need some company right now. I-I don’t want to be alone.”

Phil feels like crying right along with him at that admission. He puts his hand on Scott’s knee. Squeezes it gently. “I’m not going anywhere, man.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scott hasn’t eaten dinner either, so Phil orders them Subway to be delivered; on any other night Jimmy John’s would’ve been the first choice, but Phil doesn’t want Scott to associate his favorite sandwich place with such a rough memory.

They pop in a movie - Super Bad, because not even a terrible memory could ruin that movie - while they nibble on their sandwiches.

Scott doesn’t eat much, which is to be expected. But neither does Phil. It isn't tasting very good to him (which is weird, because the chicken, bacon, ranch sub always tastes good to him).

In fact, Phil starts feeling really sick after just a few bites. Like he might throw up if he keeps eating.

He pushes his food away and closes his eyes.

Fuck. Now he knows why he’s so exhausted tonight. He’s sick.

He gulps as a chill runs through him.

Really sick.

“Hey, Scott?” he says weakly. His mouth is starting to water with excess saliva. He swallows it down.

“Hmm?” Scott asks. He’s staring at their TV - practically staring through it - as Seth, Evan, and Fogell get into their various antics.

“Will you be okay if I go use the bathroom?”

Scott blinks and turns his head to look at him. “Are you seriously asking my permission to use the bathroom? Yikes, am I really that pathetic right now?”

“I just...” Phil swallows hard. “I might be a while...”

Scott snorts a little, even holds up his hands. “Okay, that’s TMI... I’ll be fine, man.”

He does seem to be a little calmer now. More put together.

Even still...

“I’ll try to be quick,” Phil promises, then beelines for the door.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Nothing happens.

For twenty fucking minutes, Phil is sure he’s going to puke. He closes himself in one of the private bathrooms and drapes himself over the toilet, just waiting. The nausea is unbearable.

He had hoped that throwing up would make him feel better, but that prospect is completely out the window since he can’t throw up.

He lets drool and spit spill into the toilet. He even presses on his aching stomach to try to get things going. As much as he hates throwing up, the nausea he’s experiencing right now is a hundred times worse.

~*~*~*~*~*~

At the twenty-five minute mark, Phil’s body finally, finally succumbs to the nausea and he throws up.

It’s terrible, and he’s left panting, and shaking, and still so, so nauseous. Which tells him he needs to brace himself for round two.

He switches the arm he’s holding his head up with and then his body involuntarily heaves again, with only a little bile to show for his efforts.

Puking is the absolute worst.

He jumps a little when his phone vibrates against the tile floor beside him. It’s a text from Scott.

Phil rests his head on the toilet seat and blinks down at his phone to read it.

You weren’t kidding about being gone a while. You good?

He considers lying. Considers telling Scott that he’s fine because Scott shouldn’t have to be burdened by this. Not now.

But Phil is increasingly not fine, and he doesn’t have the strength to be the rock Scott needs. He sighs. Time to come clean. He types back a reply: No. 🤢

I knew it. Scott sends back. You barely touched your sandwich. You throwing up?

Yeah.

Scott starts calling him, then. He picks up.

“Come back to the room,” Scott says before Phil can even speak. He sounds like he’s on speakerphone.

“I can’t. I don’t think I’m done,” Phil breathes out shakily. “I still feel really bad...”

“That’s okay. C’mon, you’ll be more comfortable in here.”

Phil feels like crying. “I don’t want you to have to deal with this,” he croaks. “I know you said you didn’t want to be alone, but I’m pretty sure I’m the worst possible company right now.”

“I’m not alone,” Scott tells him. “Adam came by.”

Phil blinks. That explains the speakerphone.

“Hey, Lammers,” Adam greets.

“Hey, Groves,” he sighs. “I don’t want you dealing with this either.”

“Trust me, it beats what I was putting up with from Rhett. But I’m sorry you’re not feelin’ good, man.”

Phil curls his free arm around his middle. “Thanks.”

“Seriously, come back,” Scott says again. “Please.”

“Yeah, man,” Adam echos. “It sounds like you could use some looking after.”

And Phil is seeing spots, and kind of dizzy, so they might just have a point.

So he goes back.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scott is grieving, and Phil is sick, and Adam is oh-so-annoyed at Rhett that the night turns into an unhealthy amount of wallowing and misery.

They mark it down as one of the worst nights in their entire college career. But they make it through. Together.

Fin.

Chapter 15: mere mortal

Notes:

Characters: Scott Keene, Phil Lammers, Adam Groves, Porter Jones

Summary: Scott thought he could hang.

⚠️ Content warnings: overeating/stuffing, vomiting

Scott finds himself at the buffet with some of the freshman guys (and Dean) from the swim team.

Again.

He doesn’t love going to the buffet because he always feels like he loses money. He doesn’t have the appetite that the swimmers do, and it always seems like he’s overpaying for one or two plates of food. But the swimmers always get their money’s worth and then some.

Well, Scott’s determined to at least break even this time around. He hasn’t eaten all day in preparation for this.

The plan is to eat dinner at the Hometown Buffet and then head across the street to the bowling alley. A low-key Saturday night before the guys head into their championship season.

Scott decides he’s going to try and eat whatever Phil eats.

Game on.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Four heaping plates of food later, and Scott is having some regrets. He’s pretty sure he’s eaten more in this one sitting than he has all week.

Chicken, steak, turkey... he’s had it all. Plus mashed potatoes, and macaroni and cheese, and green bean casserole, and pizza, and tacos, and three rolls for some reason (hello empty calories).

And now Phil is standing up to head to the dessert section.

Scott draws in a deep breath and follows.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“You’re copying me, aren’t you?” Phil realizes finally, looking at their matching dessert plates of cherry pie, cheesecake, and two brownies.

Scott grins sheepishly at him. “Yeah, I always feel like I lose money when we come here. Figured I’d learn how to break even from the master.”

Phil huffs a laugh. “Well, I’m happy to be of assistance. We’re just missing some soft serve. Follow me.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

It takes all of Scott’s willpower to get the dessert down. He feels so full he thinks he might burst. His jeans are digging into his belly and his shirt is starting to ride up a bit. He even has to loosen his belt.

But he did it. He went 1:1 with Phil at the buffet. A feat that only mere mortals can dream of achieving.

His stomach aches painfully as they pile into Dean’s SUV. He’s thankful he doesn’t have to climb in the back. He’s not sure he could right now.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scott realizes just how rough he’s feeling when he bends down to put on his bowling shoes. His stomach somersaults and he burps sickly. Nausea rushes over him like a wave.

He gets his shoes tied, then sits back up to put a fist to his mouth, wondering if he’s going to have to make a run for the bathroom.

His stomach gurgles as it tries to digest. Scott presses his palm against his taut, overstuffed belly to try and help it settle. It doesn’t work.

“You okay, man?” Dean asks from beside him, while the rest of the guys plug their names into the scorecard.

“Um,” Scott says, caught off-guard and face flushing red that Dean noticed him having a “moment.” “I-I’m gonna go to the bathroom. Play this round without me, okay? I might be a while.” He stands up, but Dean grabs his elbow.

“Wait, are you feeling sick?” Dean asks, concerned.

“Yeah, I-I think I ate too much,” Scott explains, a little embarrassed. Scott essentially did this to himself. “I just need a minute, okay?”

Dean frowns, but nods. “Okay, man...” he says unsurely, and lets him go.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scott feels so sick as he positions himself over the grimy toilet bowl. He’s closed into the first stall of the men’s bathroom.

He regrets everything. His stomach has never hurt this bad. He’s not going to be able to keep it down.

He burps, then curls an arm around his bloated belly.

He just wants to get it over with.

Thankfully, his body obliges, and he starts throwing up. He doesn’t even have to strain very hard. His stomach is so sick and full that it just comes up in waves, his entire meal on replay in reverse.

It’s absolutely dreadful, but honestly? Kind of funny, too. He thought he could hang.

“Keene?”

Phil’s voice floats into the bathroom.

“In here,” he croaks between bouts. His stomach won’t rest.

“Dude... did you really eat so much that you’re exorcist-ing right now?” Phil is half-laughing, but Scott can tell he’s a little concerned, too.

“Apparently,” he mumbles, then gags again.

“Phil, stop laughing. He’s embarrassed enough...” Dean’s voice scolds Phil.

“It’s fine...” Scott breathes during a brief moment of reprieve. “It is kinda funny.” His voice echoes into the bowl.

“Told you,” Phil says, obviously relieved that Scott is seeing the humor in the situation despite feeling so awful.

“Are you starting to feel a little better now, at least?” Dean asks from outside the stall door.

Scott answers him with another wave of puke splashing into the toilet. His stomach is starting to feel wrung out, but yes, getting all of this food out of his system is making him feel much better. “Yeah.” He draws in a deep breath; he thinks he might be finished.

“Adam's getting you some water, man,” Phil tells him.

“‘Kay. I’m coming out.”

He pushes himself up and unlocks the stall door.

“Back, demon!” Phil jokes, holding his index fingers up to make an X.

Scott absently rubs at his stomach. “Dude, I’m just a mere mortal. I'm pretty sure you’re the one who’s supernatural for being able to handle that many calories at once.”

“Super awesome,” Phil corrects.

Dean rolls his eyes at the both of them. “You guys are idiots. Are we gonna bowl, or not?”

Fin.

Chapter 16: you can call me any day of the week

Notes:

Characters: Julia Wray, Phil Lammers

Summary: Julia hasn’t seen Phil in ages - which is her own fault - and she’s not sure how well her presence will be received. A bout of motion-sickness makes the reunion even more interesting.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

Julia and Cassidy are taking advantage of the beautiful summer day and the student discount at their local amusement park. They’re celebrating surviving their first year of college.

They’d started off at the water park and now are heading into the main park to ride some roller coasters.

“Hey, Julia, isn’t that Phil?” Cassidy asks, nudging her shoulder as they approach the end of the line for Shadow Coaster, the newest addition to the park.

Julia’s stomach drops.

It is Phil. The kindest, most attractive guy she’s ever known is standing in front of her with his roommate and some of the swimmers. They’re all laughing about something and having a good time. She hasn’t seen Phil in ages - which is her own fault - and she’s not sure how well her presence will be received.

“Cassidy, we need to turn around,” she says, almost panicked. “He probably hates my guts.”

Cassidy snorts. “Oh, come on, Jules. He couldn’t hate you if he tried,” she says, pushing her closer to them. “He practically worships the ground you walk on.” She winks at Julia, then says, “Yo, Phil!”

They all turn around to face them.

Phil’s expression sobers. “Oh, hey...” he says, as he realizes who called his name. “Julia, Cass... how... how are you?” His face is suddenly flushed red and he looks down at his feet.

Yup. Julia knew it. This is awkward.

“We’re good!” Cassidy says happily, completely oblivious to the tension. “Just celebrating being finished with exams! How about you all?”

“The same,” Adam chimes in. “Can you believe there’s over an hour wait for this ride?”

Oh gosh. An hour being trapped with Phil? Julia wants to die.

“Well, considering the entire student body is here right now, yeah I can believe it,” Cassidy says.

“Good point,” Adam concedes. “Well, we’re playing the Chain Game to pass the time. You want in?”

Julia relaxes a little. Yes, she wants in. Anything to avoid having a one-on-one conversation with Phil. She’s not prepared for that right now.

She avoids eye contact with him the entire time.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Here’s what had happened: Julia and Phil were really getting along. She had a major crush on him. Still does. But right around the time he asked her out, Julia’s brother Lucas was diagnosed with cancer.

And, naturally, Julia was having a hard time coping and she didn’t think it would be fair to put all that on Phil, so she broke it off.

Avoided his texts. His calls.

She practically dropped off the face of the Earth. And it wasn’t fair to him, and she still feels awful about it. All he has ever been is nice to her, but she was afraid of being vulnerable so she shut him out.

She doesn’t want to face him.

~*~*~*~*~*~

But, apparently her “friend,” and Phil’s “friends” want them to face each other because Cassidy and Adam make a beeline to sit with each other so that Julia and Phil end up in the same coaster car on the ride.

“Guys, seriously?” Julia says as they giggle to each other.

And she sees the glimmer of hurt on Phil’s face, and wishes she hadn’t said that.

“I just mean...” she tries to recover, but there’s no coming back from that. She sighs. “Never mind. Come on, I guess.”

They climb into their respective seats.

“I’m kind of nervous,” Phil says quietly, leaning over a bit so only she can hear, while the workers test the bar to make sure they’re safely secured in their seats.

“Me too,” she admits. “Cass was the one who wanted to ride this.”

She glances at Phil, suddenly seeing a way back in. “Hold my hand?” she asks timidly, resting the back of her hand against Phil’s knee.

She actually sees the relief wash over Phil. “Sure,” he says, smiling softly, and takes her hand in his.

And off they go.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Julia hates every second of it. The coaster has more twists and turns and drops than she realized, and she legitimately feels ill as they start heading up the hill to the final drop.

“I hate this,” she says out loud through gritted teeth, over the sound of the chain pulling them up. She doesn’t want to open her eyes.

“Me too,” Phil says.

Her stomach is turning and she feels cold all over, which is insane because it’s over 95 degrees today. “I don’t feel very good,” she feels it’s important to say, because she seriously might throw up and Phil deserves at least a warning. The feeling is getting stronger.

Phil takes her hand again. “You don’t?”

She swallows. “I-I feel really sick.”

Phil squeezes her hand. “Okay, I got you. It’s almost over, Jules.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Only... it’s not almost over.

The ride breaks down about ten feet from the top. Completely shuts down.

Apparently there was a malfunction with one of the other roller car’s safety bar mechanism, and they had to stop the rest of the trains while they work on it. According to the announcement made on the loud speaker, they could be stuck up here for ten or fifteen minutes.

“T-This can’t be happening...” Julia says shakily. Her head feels so heavy from the gravity of being on an incline. There’s no headrest, but she needs to rest her head against something, so she scoots closer to Phil and rests her cheek against his shoulder. It doesn’t help. The vertigo is too strong. She can’t even bring herself to open her eyes.

Phil isn’t faring much better, but he puts up a good charade to try and make her feel better. “It’s gonna be okay,” he tells her, his arm snaking behind her back and his voice shaking a little. “They’ll get us down.”

She can barely hear him over the ringing in her ears.

Her stomach is in her throat now, and she can feel her entire body trembling. “Phil, ‘m gonna be sick,” she breathes suddenly,. “I-I can’t—” she breaks off with a dry heave. “Oh, God...”

“Okay, you’re okay,” Phil says calmly and she feels her shoulders being pushed forward against the gravity so she can throw up between her feet. Just in time, too. A gush of sick bursts out of her mouth and into the footwell.

“Easy, easy, you’re okay,” she hears Phil saying, and is vaguely aware of him repositioning her ponytail to avoid the stream of vomit. She brings up another wave.

“M’sorry,” she gasps out, once her stomach has stopped going haywire.

Phil is running his hand up and down her back. “Don’t be. This ride is awful and deserves to be covered in puke.”

She knows that he’s trying to get her smile, or even laugh, but she ends up choking on a sob instead. Gosh, she’s pathetic, and now she’s crying, and how in the world did this day go sideways so fast? “This i-is so embarrassing. I’m s-so sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, Jules, I swear it’s okay. I’m just sorry you’re feeling so bad. Here, lean back, okay? Just try to breathe.” He guides her shoulders back, then rests his elbow on the back on the car so that he can make pillow with the palm of his hand for her head.

That’s how they sit, for some unmeasurable amount of time, before the ride gets going again.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Can you get her some water?” Julia hears Phil say to one of the ride attendants once they finally, finally make it back to the station. She doesn’t even remember the last bit of it. She probably blacked out. “She threw up while we were stuck at the top...”

“Yes, sir, of course,” a man’s voice says back. “There are some benches at the start of the exit. Let me help you get her there.”

Thank God, Julia thinks, because she’s still so dizzy and nauseated, and isn’t sure she can open her eyes yet, let alone walk.

She lets strong hands pull her up and out her seat, and then she’s half-carried, half-dragged to a shady spot and a solid bench.

She can hear whispers and low tones surrounding her, no doubt other riders who are just now realizing that she’d gotten sick on the ride. She cringes when she hears someone say Ew. Gross. And another at the front of the line: Now they’re gonna shut it down again!

“Julia, oh my gosh, are you okay?” That’s Cassidy’s voice. “What happened?”

“She got a little motion sick from the ride,” she hears Phil explain from beside her. “Julia, can you open your eyes now? You need to try some water.”

She groans. She’s grateful to be on low, solid ground, but her stomach is still really upset. She squints her eyes open to try and take in her surroundings.

Cassidy is kneeling in front of her, with Scott and the guys from the team looking concerned for her wellbeing behind her. Phil is still by her side, and she’s just now realizing the weight from his arm around her shoulder.

“Guys, why don’t you go on?” Phil says to his friends. “I’m gonna stay with Julia until she’s feeling better. I’ll catch up with you in a bit.”

They get that they’re being dismissed (thank goodness, Julia really doesn’t need an audience right now), and they tell her to feel better as they go.

So then it’s just Cassidy and Phil, and the random employee who’s standing awkwardly nearby supervising the situation, and Julia realizes that Phil is holding out a water bottle, the top unscrewed, for her to take.

She does, reluctantly, and manages a few sips.

But her stomach rejects them completely, and she shakes her head, handing it back. “Think ’m g'na be sick ‘gain...” she mumbles.

“Trashcan is right here, ma’am,” the employee tells her, scooting the metal basin lined with a bag closer to her. Cassidy goes to sit on the other side of Phil so she’s out of the way.

Julia throws up again, but there isn’t much left in her stomach to bring up. She feels wrung out, empty, as she pants over the bin. “O-Okay, I-I think I’m okay now,” she says once her stomach settles considerably. She’s starting to feel more grounded. She pushes the offending basin away and blinks up at the ride attendant. “I-I’m really sorry.”

He’s an older gentleman with kind eyes. “No need to be sorry for something you can’t control,” he tells her.

Cassidy reaches across Phil to put a hand on her knee. “Do you want to go home?” she asks.

Julia still has tears of embarrassment slipping down her cheeks. She nods. “Yes, please. I-Is that okay?”

“Of course,” Cass says.

“Let me walk you guys to the car,” Phil says.

Insists.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“I’m really sorry you had to deal with this...” Julia says to Phil, once he’s helped her into the passenger seat of Cassidy’s car.

Phil is leaning against the passenger door. He shrugs. “It was no big thing. I’m glad you’re feeling a little better now.”

“You were... you were really sweet,” she tells him shyly. “Thank you.”

“It was really good to see you,” he tells her, genuinely.

She raises his eyebrows. “Even though you were seeing the motion-sick, puking version of me?”

He smiles softly. “I’d take seeing any version of you over not seeing you at all.”

Julia’s heart melts at his words, and a pang of guilt wells up in her chest for pushing him away. She starts to stammer out an apology. “Phil, I—”

He holds up a hand to stop her.

“It’s okay, Julia. We don’t... we don’t have to do this right now.”

She swallows over the lump in her throat and nods. He’s right. Now isn’t the time. “Okay.” She reaches up to brush a stray tear from her cheek. “C-Can I call you tomorrow?”

“You can call me any day of the week.”

“What a line,” Cassidy chimes in with a smile.

Phil winks at her.

Julia grins in spite of herself. “Okay... I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then.”

Phil nods, dimples showing as he tries to bury the smile of his own. “Tomorrow,” he agrees with a nod. Then he shuts the passenger door and sends them off with a wave.

Fin.

Chapter 17: you owe me nothing

Notes:

Characters: Adam Groves, Phil Lammers, Scott Keene, Dean Sutton

Summary: Adam starts feeling really ill while the rest of the guys are out volunteering. Phil to the rescue!

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

“Hey, when are we leaving for the soup kitchen?” Adam asks from his spot on the futon. “5:00 or 6:00?” He’s been hanging out in Phil and Scott’s dorm room a lot, lately. Even when he’s not trying to escape from Rhett. They’ve spent the majority of the day playing video games.

“5:00,” Scott answers. “They start serving at 5:30.”

Scott had roped Phil and Adam into coming along with him tonight. His church volunteers at the soup kitchen frequently, but they were short on volunteers this weekend.

“Okay,” Adam says, and pushes himself up from the futon. “I think I’m gonna go lie down for a bit before we go. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, of course, man,” Phil says. “We’ll meet you in the lobby at 5.”

~*~*~*~*~*~ ...Only, Adam isn’t there at 5.

Phil and Scott get a text from Dean. It was sent to Adam, too, in a group chat. I’m here.

Dean had been roped into volunteering, too, since he has a car. He’s driving them all over there.

Phil types back a quick response. Just waiting on Groves.

He expects Adam to text that he’ll “be right down,” but that text never comes.

They give him until 5:05 and then they head back upstairs to knock on his door.

“Yo, Groves, you in there, man?” Phil says loudly. “We need to go.”

No response, but...

“I can hear his alarm going off,” Scott says. “He’s gotta be in there.” Phil knocks again. “Adam?”

They hear some shuffling around and then the alarm shuts off. A couple more moments pass and then Adam swings the door open. His hair is a mess and he only looks half-awake. He squints. “What...?” he croaks.

“We have to go, man,” Phil says urgently. “Dean’s waiting in the car out front. Did you not hear your alarm going off?”

“Go...?” Adam repeats, and doesn’t answer the question. He is out of it.

“I don’t think he’s feeling well,” Scott says lowly, so only Phil can hear. “He doesn’t look so good.”

Phil furrows his brow at Adam as he takes in his appearance, and Scott is right. He looks off-color. Ill.

Adam rubs his face, awareness finally catching up to him. “Oh, right, t-the soup kitchen.” He drops his hands and blinks. “Did I oversleep?”

“Yeah, buddy, that’s what we’re trying to tell you,” Phil says, his voice softening because it’s obvious Adam isn’t well.

“S-Shoot... M’sorry,” Adam says, and his voice sounds weak. Thin. “I’ll get ready right now. M’sorry. J-Just... give me a second.”

He starts to back up into the room, but Phil grabs ahold of his elbow. “Dude, wait a second. Are you okay?” Instinctively, he reaches up to palm Adam’s forehead, and has to suppress a gasp at the heat he feels there. “I think you’re running a fever.” He glances at Scott. “He’s really warm.”

Adam blinks. “I am?” His eyes are glassy.

Scott puts his hand up to Adam’s forehead, too. He swallows hard and nods. “Definitely a fever,” he confirms.

“Are you feeling sick?” Phil asks him, and guides him to sit back down on his bed.

“I-I don’t know...” Adam says, because he hasn’t been awake long enough to take a fair assessment of his well-being. He takes in a deep breath. “My s-stomach feels kind of f-funny, I guess...”

“I think you’re gonna have to hang back tonight, man,” Scott tells him.

Phil glances down at his watch. “Yeah, and we really need to get going,” he says. “Can we get you anything before we go? Are you gonna be okay by yourself for a few hours?”

“Yeah, I’ll b’fine. Think m’just gonna go back to sleep,” Adam tells them, as he gets back under the covers. “M’really tired.”

“Okay, buddy,” Phil says and reaches for Adam’s water bottle on his nightstand. “Here, maybe drink a little bit before you go back to sleep.”

Adam takes the water from him and manages a couple timid sips.

Scott nudges the trashcan over to the side of Adam’s bed. “Only because you said your stomach’s feeling off,” he says, when Adam gives him a weary look.

“Thanks,” Adam breathes. “S-Sorry I can’t come, Keene. I know you’re pressed for volunteers...”

“It’s okay, man,” Scott assures him. “Really. We’ll be just fine.”

“You better go...” Adam says.

“Yeah,” Phil agrees, and pats his friend’s leg. “Feel better, man.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Volunteering at the soup kitchen flies by with a blur. Being down a pair of hands means working even harder for the volunteers that are there. There’s not even a second to rest as they try to get everybody served within the two and a half hour window.

Which means there’s not even a second to send Adam a text to check in. When 8:00 rolls around and they close the doors, Phil makes a dive for his phone to text Adam.

We’re finishing up at the soup kitchen. How’re you doing?

bad, Adam sends back. feel awful.

Phil’s stomach drops into his toes and he immediately phones his friend.

It takes Adam a second to pick up. “‘Lo?” he answers with a croak.

“Hey, man,” Phil says. “You’re not doing too good, huh?”

“No,” Adam breathes. “I-I’m so nauseous. I can’t stop—” he gulps and Phil hears an audible swallow. “I c-can’t stop t-throwing up.”

“Are you still in your room?” Phil wonders. “Or did you move to the bathroom?”

“Room. I-I’m too dizzy...”

Phil’s heart is pounding in his chest. Adam sounds like he’s in really bad shape. “Is Rhett with you?” he hopes.

“No, he n’vr came b’ck.”

Phil hears him sniff and wonders if he’s crying. He’s obviously really sick and scared, and Phil needs to get back to him. Now.

“Okay, A. Listen, I’m coming back, buddy. Right now. I’m gonna leave right now, okay? Will you be able to let me in when I get there?”

Adam sniffs again. “I-I think so.”

“Okay, hang in there, man. I’m coming.”

Phil hangs up and whirls around to go find Scott and nearly jumps out of his skin.

Because Scott is standing right behind him, holding a bin of dirty dishes. “Were you talking to Adam?” he asks. “Is he okay?”

Phil shakes off his surprise. “Uh, yeah, that was him,” he says. “He’s really sick. Said he can’t stop throwing up and he’s really dizzy...”

“Is Rhett there?” Scott asks.

Phil shakes his head. “No, and I really don’t think he should be alone...”

“Yeah, me either,” Scott agrees. “Let’s go find Dean. You can take his car. We’ll finish cleaning up and then just Uber back.”

“Okay, thanks, Keene.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Heart still thumping in his chest, Phil knocks on Adam’s door. He’s a little out of breath; he’d run all the way here after parking the car.

“Oh, Jesus, man,” he breathes when Adam pulls the door open.

Adam looks ten times worse than when they’d left him. For starters, he’s trembling from head to toe and hanging onto the door knob for dear life. His T-shirt is soaked through with sweat and he is pale. Scary pale.

“H-Hey,” Adam greets him weakly.

Phil stares at him a second longer, wondering how he got so ill so fast. Then he snaps into action. “Okay, I got you, bro. C’mon,” he beckons. He wraps his arm around Adam’s waist and lets him lean on him while he guides him back to his bed with sweat-soaked sheets.

He helps him lean back against the pillows and his heart sinks when Adam immediately curls his arms around his stomach and closes his eyes. He lets out a shuddering breath. He’s clearly still very nauseous.

The smell of sickness is permeating around the room.

Adam had thankfully made it to the trashcan every time his stomach had needed to empty itself. Phil decides the first step is getting the offending smell out of the room the best he can.

He opens Adam’s window to let some fresh air in. Then, “A, where are your trash bags?” he asks. “Bottom drawer of t’dresser,” Adam tells him.

Phil retrieves a fresh bag, then pulls the offending one out of the bin and ties it off. He replaces it with the fresh one. He tries not to cringe at the weight of soiled bag and how it sloshes as he carries it out to the designated area in the hallway to dispose of it.

When he returns, Adam has pushed himself back up and is leaning over the trashcan again, dry heaving. His arms are shaking as he clutches the rim.

“Damn, bro, you’re really going through it, huh?” Phil says sympathetically. Adam just moans, then heaves again.

Phil takes a cautious seat on the bed beside him and starts running his hand up and down his sweat soaked back while Adam pants against the nausea. There is heat coming off him in waves, which tells Phil his fever is still raging.

“When did you start throwing up?” Phil asks. He brushes Adam’s sweaty hair out of his eyes as he drools in the bin.

Adam spits. “I-I don’t know. An hour after you left?” he guesses. Which means this has been going on for two hours.

“Dude...” Phil breathes.

“I-I just want to g-go back to sleep,” Adam chokes out miserably. “But I c-can’t s-stop—” he heaves again. Hard. And this time it’s productive, a thin stream of bile spilling out of his lips.

Phil holds onto his shoulders as Adam’s body continues to purge itself. He’s so, so sick.

“Okay, easy, easy,” Phil soothes, when Adam starts dry heaving again. “You’re empty, man. Just breathe.”

Adam fights to get his body under control, and when he does Phil helps him lean back. He knows that Adam wants to go back to sleep, but his bed is sweat-soaked and filthy, and so is Adam for that matter.

Phil can’t, in good conscious, let him stew in that.

“A, I think we need to clean you up a bit before you go back to sleep, man. And we should change your sheets. They’re soaked.”

“No...” Adam groans. “M’so dizzy... please...”

Gosh, he sounds so pitiful.

“A shower might make you feel better,” Phil tries to reason with him. “I can help you.”

Adam opens his bleary eyes. “Yeah?” he croaks, shivering from being drenched in sweat.

“Yeah. C’mon. You need to warm up.”

Adam doesn’t have any spare sheets, but Phil does. He runs to his dorm room to grab them, then helps Adam into his desk chair while he strips the bed and quickly puts the clean sheets on. Then he grabs a towel and some fresh boxers and sweats for his friend and tucks them under his arm.

“Okay bud, you’re all set for when we get back,” Phil says, squeezing the nape of Adam’s neck gently. “C’mon, I promise you this shower is going to feel so good.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Fortunately, the handicapped, private bathroom across from Adam’s room isn’t being used. On any other occasion, Phil wouldn’t feel right using it since they aren’t handicapped and there is a student in a wheelchair, Jimmy, who needs to use it on a regular basis. But he happened to see Jimmy leave with some friends as he came back from the soup kitchen. And right now, Adam desperately needs some privacy, and Phil isn’t sure he’d make the long walk to the communal bathrooms anyway.

Since Jimmy isn’t here, Phil figures it’s fine to use it.

The shower even has a bench that Adam can sit on, which is a Godsend since Adam is so unsteady on his feet. Phil uses the detachable hose to rinse him down with warm water. Even washes his hair for him.

Adam leaves his boxer shorts on while Phil washes him down. He’s quiet and pliant throughout the entire ordeal, blinking dazedly as he tries to stay conscious.

“Feels good, right?” Phil asks, hopefully.

“Mhmm,” Adam answers. “I’m starting to feel semi-human again.”

Phil smiles softly. “Told you.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Phil helps Adam dry off and get changed into the fresh clothes. Adam is barely able help in the process. He’s just too weak and sick.

It’s a lot of work, giving someone so ill a shower.

But it’s all worth it when Adam sighs contentedly when they get back to the room and he collapses into the fresh seats. “Thanks, Lammers,” he says, opening his bleary eyes to meet Phil’s. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me nothing,” Phil says, and squeezes his hand. “Feel better, bro.”

Fin.

Chapter 18: pure, stupid grit

Notes:

Characters: Rhett Molloy, Scott Keene, Phil Lammers

Summary: Here’s the thing: Rhett Molloy is amazing.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

Here’s the thing.

Rhett Molloy is amazing.

Scott came to that realization soon after he met him.

Yes, he’s an asshole of the highest order. But he’s also amazing.

He’s tough, rough, and hard, and mean, but he’s unlike anyone Scott has ever met. And Scott is fascinated by him.

Because, yes, Scott has seen and experienced the typical rough, hard, and mean version of Rhett that he constantly puts out there. That’s how Rhett wants the world to view him, after all. And he’s successful.

Mostly.

But Scott has had opportunities to look closer and he’s seen another version of him, too. One Rhett tries to keep buried, along with the trauma of his past. A version of Rhett that has slipped through the cracks one too many times for Scott to buy his hardened exterior. His mask. His shell.

The true version of himself is buried deep within, and it’s wounded. Vulnerable. Loving. Loyal.

And still so damn tough.

Today is no exception.

Scott is volunteering at the team’s final meet before the championship season. It’s Rhett’s first meet back after his surgery, and based on his recent practices, he’s back to 100%, or at least, very close to it.

And this meet is against their biggest rivals, Bennington University, so everyone is expected to put their best foot forward.

Scott is nervous for them.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The swimmers are each competing in four events. Scott takes note of all the races he wants to watch.

He loves watching his friends compete. He sees how hard they work at practice and tonight is the time to let it all pay off.

He is HYPED.

His job is to offer Gatorade and PowerBars to the swimmers after they warm down. He stands outside the trainer office door for most of the evening, getting a close-up view of the meet.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Hudson wins the first relay, and their “B” team comes in third. Both Dean and Phil had awesome splits.

Next is the mile, Rhett’s best event, but also his first time swimming it since his surgery.

He wins, but just barely, clocking in at 15:48. And Scott can tell that he’s not very happy with that time.

Rhett shakes the hand of his opponent before exiting the pool. His arms tremble noticeably when he pushes himself up and out. Then he walks over to the diving well where they’re supposed to swim some recovery laps.

But Rhett doesn’t get in right away.

Instead, he backs up so he’s leaning against the wall of the pool deck, close enough to Scott that he can hear him panting heavily as he pulls his cap off. He lets his arms hang limp, then closes his eyes and just breathes.

Scott watches him. He can’t help it.

He’s close enough to see that Rhett’s skin is covered in goosebumps, and his Adam’s apple is pulsating against every swallow.

“You okay, Rhett?” Scott asks, before he can help himself.

Rhett opens his eyes, startled, as if he hadn’t realized Scott was standing there.

He clears his throat. “Yeah. M’good,” he grunts, but he brings a hand up to press against his stomach and his voice sounds weak and Scott doesn’t believe him even a little bit.

Scott raises his eyebrows. “You sure?”

Rhett breathes in through his nose deeply. “Yeah,” he breathes out with a sigh. “I’m sure.”

It’s not exactly convincing, but Scott drops it.

“‘Kay. Well, good swim, man.”

Rhett scoffs a little at that and pulls on his googles, sans swim cap, then takes a few paces forward before sliding into the diving well to begin his recovery laps.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Phil comes to see Scott for bit after his second individual race.

“This meet is insane,” he says. “The score is neck and neck.”

“I know,” Scott says. “Hey, nice swims, man.”

Phil had finished second with a best time in the 100 backstroke, and had finished 3rd in the 200.

“Thanks. It was my first time breaking 47 seconds in the 100.” Phil takes one of the cups filled with Gatorade from the cart and starts sipping on it. “I think this meet is going to come down to the last relay.”

“Yeah, looks that way...” Scott agrees. He’s only half-listening. He’s watching Rhett prepare for his 500. He’s behind the blocks, leaning against the back of one of the timers’ chairs. His head is bowed.

Phil follows his gaze. “Molloy really needs to win this race,” he says. “In fact, we need to win out the rest of the individual events, or we don’t have a chance.”

“I don’t think he’s feeling well,” Scott laments.

Phil frowns. “What makes you say that?”

As if on cue, Rhett pushes away from the chair and walks briskly to the nearest garbage can, his arm cradling his stomach all the way.

“Uh, that,” Scott says pointedly.

They both watch as Rhett dry heaves and spits over the bin a few times, but he never brings up anything of substance.

“Maybe it’s just nerves,” Phil says, always the optimist. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“I just hope he’s not pushing himself too hard,” Scott says. “I have half a mind to go get Erin...”

“He’d kill you,” Phil says seriously.

Scott sighs. “I know.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Rhett wins the 500.

By a fingernail.

It’s unreal.

The natatorium goes wild.

They really have a chance at winning this meet. For the first time in ten years.

“That was amazing!” Phil says happily.

Scott watches as Jason gives Rhett a hand out of the pool.

It’s clear Rhett had given it his all in that race. He’s exhausted-looking and pale-faced, and wavers a bit until Jason palms a hand against his chest to right him. He escapes his teammates trying to congratulate him and ducks into the locker room.

Phil nudges Scott in the ribs. “I gotta start warming up for the relay, but Dean is swimming next! The 100 fly.”

Scott barely acknowledges that. “Yeah, um... I think I’m gonna go check on Rhett.”

Concern flashes across Phil’s face. “You’re really worried about him, huh?”

Scott shrugs. “I just have a feeling...” he starts heading in the direction of the locker room. “Good luck on your last race if I don’t see you.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scott steps into the locker room cautiously. He hears water running, and finds Rhett leaning on the edge of a sink splashing water in his face. His legs are shaking under his weight.

“Rhett,” Scott says timidly.

Rhett shuts the water off, and meets his eyes through the mirror. “Keene, what the hell are you doing?” he grunts.

“Just checking on you,” Scott tells him honestly.

“You’re really fucking annoying,” Rhett says, but there’s no heat behind it. He uses his towel that’s draped around his shoulders to dab his face dry.

“Yeah. And you’re really fucking sick,” Scott tosses back gently.

Rhett makes his way over to the benches in front of the lockers and takes a heavy seat. “Yeah,” he admits. He leans forward, elbow resting on his knee with his hand holding his bowed head. “Think I caught a stomach bug.”

Scott bites down on his lip. “Have you thrown up?”

Rhett shakes his head.

“Do you want me to get Erin?” Scott asks. “Or Jennings?”

“No. No way,” Rhett tells him, not lifting his head. “I can... I can do this. It’s just one more race, Keene.”

“There’s no doubt in my mind that you can do it,” Scott tells him. “I’m more hung up on if you should. You’re barely even two months post-op, man.”

“We’ll lose if I don’t swim,” Rhett says dully. “And I swear I’m not saying that to be a dick. It’s just the truth. I tap out, and we lose.”

He lifts his head up, and meets Scott’s eyes. There’s nothing but fierce determination staring him down.

"I'm swimming," he says firmly.

Scott sighs. “Okay, man,” he relents. “Okay.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scott almost can’t watch.

Phil was right. The winner of the relay will determine the winner of the meet. And Rhett is anchoring.

The natatorium is louder than it has ever been when the first leg of swimmers are called to take their mark.

Silence washes over the crowd.

BEEP!

And they’re off.

Four lengths of the pool, neck-and-neck and then the second swimmer dives in. The other team pulls away some... even expands their lead on the third leg...

And then it’s Rhett’s turn.

He dives in an entire body length behind.

And Scott’s stomach is sinking into his toes. Because the weight of this meet is on Rhett’s shoulders, and he’s sick, and there’s no possible way the can pull this off.

...Is there?

Scott can’t believe what he’s seeing. Rhett is gaining on the opposing team’s anchor. Heading into the third turn, he’s gained over half the distance back. He pushes off the last wall, hard, and dolphin kicks further than his opponent, breaking the surface right beside him. Ten yards left to go, and the crowd is going absolutely wild. The swimmers drive their heads into the finish and everybody whips their head up to see who touched first.

He did it. Rhett freaking did it.

“OH MY GOSH!!!” Phil exclaims from beside him. “He pulled it off! I can’t believe it!” He runs to go celebrate behind the bocks with the rest of the team.

All the Hudson teammates hug and cheer, but Scott only has eyes on Rhett. He still hasn’t gotten out of the pool. His arms are draped over the side, his head resting on the meat of his wrists as he tries to catch his breath.

A bunch of his teammates crouch down to pat him on the shoulder, but they’re too excited to notice that Rhett isn’t exactly reciprocating.

He is completely spent.

Scott sees him slip back into the water and duck under the lane lines to use the ladder to get out.

Scott meets him there.

Even using the ladder, getting out of the pool is proving to be a struggle for Rhett. Scott has to grab ahold of his arm and pull him the rest of the way up.

“C’mon. I’m taking you to Erin,” he says. And Rhett lets him.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Erin is tending to Jason’s cramped calf out by the diving well when Scott gets Rhett to the trainers office. He has his hand behind his back to stabilize him, but Rhett stumbles a bit when they cross the threshold.

“Whoa,” Scott says, and takes ahold of his arms to right him. “I got you. Here, sit down, sit down.” He guides Rhett over to one of the lowered padded exam tables.

“M’so fucking d-dizzy,” Rhett mumbles, his head drooping so far that his chin is touching his chest. Scott is worried he’s on the verge of passing out.

“Yeah, you really don’t look good,” Scott tells him, his heart pounding; he wonders if he should call for Erin, because what’s going on with Rhett is much more important than Jason’s tight calf. “Lie down, okay?”

But Rhett shakes his head, and his chest starts to heave. “N-No, I-I’m... I’m gonna puke...” he slurs out. “Get me... s’mthing...”

Scott grabs the plastic wastebasket by Erin’s desk and shoves it into Rhett’s arms. Rhett’s stomach caves in deep, then purges itself completely.

Scott sits by him, rubbing his hand up and down his back, and making sure he doesn’t pitch forward off the table.

Erin walks in to that scene, and takes charge, thank goodness. She cups her hand up to Rhett’s forehead and brushes his hair back out of his face.

“Scott, grab the vitals bag,” she says.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Later, once they’ve gotten Rhett settled in an ice bath, because his temperature was a soaring 105 degrees and they needed to bring it down quick, Scott says to him: “You’re incredible, you know that? How’d you pull that off while you were so sick?”

“Pure, stupid luck,” Rhett answers with a croak.

“More like pure, stupid grit,” Coach Jennings says from the doorway. “That was one hell of a performance, son. But you ever pull a stunt like that again, and I’ll bench you for the rest of the season. You ain’t any use to this team dead.”

Rhett scoffs a bit. “Okay, dramatic,” he breathes.

“I mean it, kid. Your health comes first. Always. You need to let us know when you’re not feeling 100%.” Coach Jennings eyes flick over to Scott. “Thanks for keeping an eye out for him, Keene. We’re lucky to have you around.”

Scott feels his heart swell at that comment. “Thank you, sir,” he says.

Coach Jennings knocks on the doorframe and says, “Rest up, Molloy. I mean that. I better not see you around here for two days. Minimum. Keene, make sure of that, will you?”

Scott puts his hand on Rhett’s shoulder and squeezes it gently. “Yes, sir. I will, sir.”

Fin.

Chapter 19: very far from okay

Notes:

Characters: Cory Price, Adam Groves, Margie Groves

Summary: Margie and Adam take Cory to a Hudson theater production. Cory tries to hide how sick he feels.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

Cory hates this.

It seems like every time he comes to visit Margie and Adam, he winds up sick. This time is no exception.

He was fine when he’d left the house that evening. But now, as he sits across from them in the booth of their favorite Mediterranean place on campus, he feels rough. He has a terrible stomach ache and no appetite at all.

“Aren’t these the best gyros ever?” Margie asks. She sits back contentedly and sighs.

“Yeah, they’re really good,” Cory says, trying to make his voice sound as genuine as possible.

“You’ve barely made a dent in yours,” Adam says. His gyro has long since been demolished, as his swimmer appetite tends to do.

Cory takes another bite, trying not to show the reluctance on his face. “Just savoring it,” he tells them. “Unlike you.”

Adam rolls his eyes. “I savored mine just fine,” he says. “Marge, what time do you think we should start heading over to the the theater?”

She glances at her phone. “Probably about 15 minutes.” Then she claps her hands excitedly. “Oooh, Cory, you are going to love this. Our drama program is so good.”

They’re taking him to see Hudson’s production of Footloose. Cory does theater at his high school, so it was very sweet of Margie and Adam to think to bring him to one of Hudson’s productions.

He smiles softly at her. “I can’t wait.” Then he forces down another bite.

~*~*~*~*~*~

As they wait in line for the tickets, Adam rambles on and on about Hudson’s football team. Which is something Cory would normally be interested in. But he’s really feeling bad now. The walk from the restaurant to the theater felt about ten times longer than the quarter mile that it was.

Cory wonders vaguely if he’s running a fever. He feels kind of achy all over. And he’s tempted to wrap his arms around his stomach to relieve some of the pressure there.

“Adam, I think you’re boring him,” Margie tells her brother. “Look, his eyes are glazed over.”

Cory tries to snap out of it then. “No, I was listening!” he insists.

Margie snorts. “You were not.”

Meanwhile, Cory’s very aware of Adam studying his face. “Hey man, are you feeling alright?” he asks, putting a hand on Cory’s shoulder. “Margie, does he look pale to you?”

She frowns. “Yeah, actually. You do look a little pale, Cor.”

“I’m fine,” Cory says quickly. He doesn’t want to spoil their thoughtful idea of bringing him here. It’s just a little stomach ache. He can make it another couple of hours.

Or, at least, he thinks he can.

“Are you sure?” Adam asks. “Because you’ve been kind of quiet all night.”

“That’s because you’ve been doing all the talking,” Margie jokes.

Adam playfully shoves her.

“Seriously bro, are you good?” he asks.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Cory is not good.

In fact, he’s very far from good.

His stomach starts rolling not even halfway through the first act; the achy, heavy feeling has morphed into nausea.

Oh no.

He feels himself break out into a cold sweat, and before he can even formulate an escape plan, liquid is threatening to scorch up and out of his mouth.

Thankfully, and with some good old-fashioned luck, Cory remembers that the ushers were passing out canvas shopping bags along with the playbill as they entered in honor of Earth Day. He grabs his from under the seat and shakes it open, just in time to be ill into it.

Fortunately, he’s a fairly quiet puker, so he doesn’t draw much attention to himself.

Adam puts a hand on his back. “Dude, did you just throw up?” he whispers, unsure if that was even what had just happened.

“Mhm,” Cory breathes a confirmation, a little frantically because he thinks it might happen again. “N-Need out...”

Margie, on the other side of Adam, hadn’t even realized what was going on, too engrossed in the show.

Adam quickly whispers to her what’s going on, and then all three of them shuffle out of the aisle and into the lobby, Adam keeping an arm around Cory’s waist to stabilize him.

They make it out of the theater before Cory throws up again, a more forceful wave escaping him this time. He’s so nauseated and the canvas bag sloshing and getting heavier isn’t helping.

Margie and Adam’s hands are all over him while a kind usher brings them a bottle of water and points them in the direction of the bathroom.

Next thing Cory knows, he’s sitting on the bathroom floor, coughing and sputtering over the toilet while Adam rubs his back.

“You’re okay, bud,” Adam says gently while Cory tries to get control of his body.

“M’so sorry,” Cory breathes once he finds his voice. He spits into the bowl, and tries to blink away the cloudiness from his vision. “I feel l-like I’m ruining everybody’s night.”

“You’re not, man, I swear,” Adam tells him. “But we knew you weren’t feeling well.”

Cory pushes himself away from the toilet and rests his head against the wall of the stall. He thinks (hopes) he’s done spewing. “I know... m’sorry. I h-had a bit of a stomach ache, but I d-didn’t feel nauseous until...” he trails off. “I t-thought I’d be okay.”

Adam opens the bottle of water and passes it over to him. Cory takes it gratefully and rinses his mouth out.

“Margie’s getting us an Uber back to the dorms, and then we’ll drive you home.” Adam tells him, while Cory makes sure his stomach isn’t going to go haywire again. “Does that sound good?”

Cory sighs. “No. I mean yes, but...” he rubs at his eyes, an onslaught of emotions crashing over him like a wave. “I really w-wanted to hang out with you guys. I’ve m-missed you so much, and now that we’re back together... I just... I feel like I always wreck it somehow.”

“You don’t wreck anything,” Adam admonishes, and pulls him in for a hug. “You might make it interesting, that’s for sure. But nothing you do could ever wreck our time together. You know that, right?”

Cory sniffs against his shoulder, then nods.

Adam pulls away and brushes the hair out of his eyes. “Good. Now let’s get you home, huh?”

Fin.

Chapter 20: don't bank on staying conscious

Notes:

Characters: Dean Sutton, Phil Lammers, Scott Keene, Adam Groves, Jason Rhodes

Summary: The boys feel called upon to donate blood during a shortage.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting, fainting, blood loss

“I’m a little nervous,” Dean says as he pulls into the parking lot of the blood donation center. “I’ve never given blood before.”

“I was nervous the first time I did it, too,” Phil tells him. “But it’s not so bad.”

“Yeah, they talk you through the whole thing,” Scott assures him.

They’d seen on the news that there was a shortage in their area, and felt called upon to donate. It’s the perfect time for the swimmers, because they’re taking a short two week break following their championship season before they start training for the summer long course meets.

Since you’re not supposed to workout for at least 48 hours after donating blood, there is a short window of time when it’s safe for competitive swimmers to donate.

“Does it hurt?” Adam asks; he’s another first-timer, too.

“Not really. The finger prick is the worst part,” Jason says.

Despite their assurances, Dean is still on edge as they step inside and a nice middle-aged woman greets them with a smile. She thanks them for coming and gives them each a clipboard before directing them to the waiting area.

Dean’s hands tremble as he fills out the required forms.

~*~*~*~*~*~

They don’t have to wait long before they’re called back.

“Hi, Dean. I’m Ellen,” the graying, jovial technician greets him, standing just outside her cubicle. “Come, have a seat and we’ll get your work-up started.”

She shows Dean to a padded armchair by her desk.

“First we need to take your temperature, hon,” she tells him, once they’re both seated. She hands him a thermometer attached to a reader to put under his tongue.

It’s a normal temp. 98.6 degrees on the dot.

Next she takes his blood pressure, and then his pulse.

“Pulse is a little high, sweetie,” she informs him.

Dean isn’t surprised to hear that. He can feel his heart thumping against his ribcage.

“I’m kind of nervous, I guess,” Dean tells her. “This is my first time donating blood.”

She smiles warmly. “It’s completely normal to be a little nervous,” she assures him. “Can I let you in on a secret?”

He nods.

“Most people think this next bit is the worst part.”

“The finger prick?” he guesses.

“That’s right!” she says, surprised. “I see your friends have prepared you well. We take a little sample of your blood to make sure your hemoglobin levels are where they need to be to donate. You ready?”

At his nod, Ellen takes his hand in her gloved ones and presses down on the first joint of his middle finger. Then she grabs the device and brings it to the pad of his fingertip. Dean closes his eyes and flinches a bit at the little pinch he feels, expecting something much worse.

“Alright, hard part’s over,” Ellen says. She wraps a bandage on his stuck finger. “You did great.” She puts the sample into the machine and gets a reading.

“Well, you’re all set on my end,” she says happily. “Now it’s time for the main event. Follow me.”

She leads Dean to another small room where two exam chairs are stationed side-by-side. The rest of the guys would be in different rooms.

“You can have a seat by your friend, there,” she says, motioning to Phil who is already settled in. “Rachel will be with you shortly.”

“Great. Thanks, Ellen.”

Dean slides into the chair, feeling a little calmer now. “Hey, man,” Phil greets him. “You ready?”

Dean nods. “Yeah, I think so,” he answers genuinely.

“Just don’t look at the needle as it goes in,” Phil advises.

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

As it turns out, Rachel is a young, curly-haired brunette and Dean immediately starts crushing on her. They get to talking as she gets Phil started. They learn that she’s a student at Hudson University, too, studying nursing. She works at the donation center on the weekends.

Dean feels himself tense as she wheels herself over on the stool to get him started, too. She wraps a tourniquet around his right upper arm so she can find a vein. Then she hands him a stress ball.

“You’ll squeeze this every so often once I get I get you going,” she explains. “You ready?”

“As I’ll be ever be,” Dean offers, and closes his eyes. He tries to will himself to stay calm; he can feel his heart thumping in his chest.

“Okay, relax your arm for me,” she says gently. “Here we go.”

Dean squeezes his eyes shut even further when he feels the needle make contact with his skin.

“Okay, there we go,” Rachel says.

“It’s in?” Dean breathes. He hadn’t felt anything, but now a warm sensation is washing over his arm.

“Yep. You’re all set,” Rachel confirms. “Squeeze that stress ball every ten seconds or so, and try to keep your arm relaxed. It’ll be about 15 minutes until you’re finished.”

Dean opens his eyes. “O-Okay, thanks,” he tells her with a slight shake in his voice, trying to blink away the hazy edges as he meets her eyes.

“Sure,” she says, a little furrow in her brow. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” he says quickly.

He thinks it’s true. Sure, he feels a little weird. Kind of cold and hot at the same time. But maybe that’s normal.

“Alright,” Rachel says with a smile. “You let me know if that changes, okay?”

Dean nods and closes his eyes again, trying not to think about the throbbing sensation he feels in his arm.

Rachel checks on Phil then, and they start chatting. She asks Phil about being a student-athlete and what their practice schedule is like. Dean tries to listen in on the conversation, even contribute a little bit, but their voices sound like they’re underwater and he’s having trouble following the thread.

It takes Dean a while to admit to himself that something is wrong. But he knows something isn’t right when Phil can carry on an entire conversation and he can’t even open his eyes or get his voice to work.

He’s starting to feel dizzy — really dizzy — which he didn’t even know could happen with his eyes closed. And his stomach is turning uncomfortably. His arm feels numb and he’s given up on squeezing the stress ball.

“Um...” he manages, to get Rachel’s attention, not caring that he may be interrupting their conversation. He opens his eyes into slits and tries to get his bearings.

The fluorescent lights are overwhelming, but Rachel’s face appears in his line of sight, concern etched into her features. “Dean...?” she says, but her lips don’t match up to the garbled words she’s speaking.

“I-I don’t think I-I’m okay,” Dean gets out through garbled words of his own. He might be talking over her. He doesn’t know.

“Are... feeling faint?” Rachel asks, and vaguely Dean feels the needle being pulled from his arm.

“Mm,” Dean hums an affirmative, and swallows hard.

“Okay, just try to... some deep breaths... ‘r me, Dean, ...right?”

Deep breaths. Take deep breaths. Okay.

He feels himself being lowered all the way down so he’s lying completely flat on his back. Then something - pillows maybe - are stuffed underneath his ankles.

“Is he... ‘kay?” Dean thinks he hears Phil over the the ringing in his ears.

He can’t take in a deep breath, though. He feels like he can’t breathe at all over the staggering sensation of nausea that’s vibrating through his body.

Oh gosh, he’s going to throw up, and he can’t form words to tell anybody that.

“I need some help in here!” Rachel shouts.

More panicked tones reverberate through his skull, and somebody is moving him again, thank goodness because he’s turned on his side just in time for liquid to scorch up and out of his mouth.

Somehow a trash bin had appeared in front of him. It’s miraculous that he made it into a proper receptacle and didn’t end up throwing up on the floor.

Strong hands keep him from falling off the the exam chair as his stomach continues to purge itself. The dizziness isn’t waning and Dean can feel his body giving out.

Everything goes black in an instant.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Dean? Hon, can you hear me?”

Dean feels a cold hand on his cheek.

“Mm. I can hear you,” he mumbles.

“He’s waking up,” the voice announces.

Dean hears another voice say, “Thank God.”

Phil, he thinks.

“Can you open your eyes, sweetheart?”

His lids feel heavy, but he manages to open them into slits. Ellen the technician is hovering over him. Rachel is standing at his side, holding onto his wrist, checking his pulse.

“You okay, man?” Phil asks shakily. He’s still in his exam chair.

“Dunno...” Dean mumbles, just now getting a grasp on where he even is. That’s right. The donation center. “...I passed out?”

“Afraid so,” Ellen laments.

“H-How long was I out?”

“About two minutes,” Rachel tells him.

That floors Dean. He feels like he’s waking up from a day-long slumber. “Oh.” He shivers. He feels wildly on display. Embarrassed. “Sorry about this...”

“Oh, honey, you have nothing to apologize for,” Ellen assures him.

“This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and I can promise you it won’t be the last.” She pushes his hair back. “Is your stomach still upset?”

Dean swallows. His mouth tastes foul, but the nausea has vanished. He just feels weak. And heavy. “No... I-I think it’s okay.”

“Good.”

“Dean, we want you to just stay put for a little bit, okay?” Rachel says. “Ellen’s going to grab you some gatorade and crackers from up front.”

“‘Kay.”

He lets his eyes slip closed again and he just breathes.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Time passes. But it’s impossible to know how much.

“Dean, you still with us?” Ellen asks.

“Mhm.” Barely. He’s so tired.

“Okay. We’re going to sit you up a little bit. But you let us know if that makes you feel faint again, okay?”

“‘Kay.”

Rachel and Ellen raise the back of his seat slowly. Dean opens his eyes and sees that Phil is finished with his donation and is sitting at the foot of his chair, sipping on some juice. Quite a bit of time had passed, then. He must’ve drifted off.

“Hey,” Dean croaks a greeting at Phil.

“Hey yourself, man,” Phil returns, giving him a nervous smile.

“Doing okay, Dean?” Ellen asks.

“Think so.” Relatively speaking.

“Here,” Rachel says, opening a bottle of orange gatorade for him. “Try a few sips of this.”

Dean does. But it tastes sickeningly sweet and he’s only able to manage a few sips before he hands in back, shaking his head, a sudden bout of vertigo slamming into him. “I-I can’t...” he says shakily. Oh gosh, not again.

“Dean?” Phil says worriedly.

“He’s really pale...” Rachel observes. “Dean?”

Dean can actually feel the color draining from his face. “Yeah... I-I don’t feel good,” he confirms, the room spinning all around him.

“Let’s lay him back down.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

He manages to stay conscious. But just barely. Now, he’s still lying on his back panting against the dizziness and general ill feeling. He’s not sure he’ll ever feel okay again at this point.

Rachel is holding a cold cloth to his forehead. “That’s it,” she encourages his breathing. “You’ll be okay, Dean. Just let your body take its time.”

Oh, gosh. She’s so beautiful and has such a calming presence. Dean’s going to absolutely loathe himself for this later. Getting sick in front of someone as radiant as her. But right now he lets her hold his hand and relishes in it. Tries to come back to himself.

His eyes slip closed yet again. And he drifts.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Phil. How’s he doing? What happened?” That’s Jason’s voice.

Dean forces himself to open his eyes again, relieved to find that the room isn’t spinning as much anymore. Jason is standing in the doorway.

“H-He got sick and passed out. He’s still feeling really bad,” Phil answers. He rests his hand on Dean’s shin and squeezes gently.

“Doing a little better now,” Dean mumbles.

“Yeah?” Phil asks.

“Mhm.”

“Well, I want you to take a few more minutes before we try sitting up again,” Rachel tells him.

“Works for me,” Dean allows. He’s not eager to sit back up after how poorly the first attempt went.

“Everyone else do okay? Are you good?” Phil asks Jason.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Scott and Adam, too. They’re waiting out front.”

“Okay, good. Hey, I don’t know when they’ll give him the green light to leave, but will you be able to drive us home?”

“Yeah, of course,” Jason says simply. “I’ll go fill Scott and Adam in. Take your time, Dean, okay? Let the nice ladies take care of you.”

Rachel gives Dean a smile and a wink at those words.

It brings a little flush back to Dean’s cheeks. “Roger that.”

Fin.

Chapter 21: it takes a village

Notes:

Characters: Phil Lammers, Scott Keene, Adam Groves, Dean Sutton

Summary: They both go downhill fast. Thankfully they have have people in their corner.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

Phil is struggling to keep up with Adam and Scott.

It’s Saturday night and they’d ridden their bikes to the movie theater to catch the latest Will Ferrell flick. There wasn’t anything better to do since it’s dry season and a bye week for football. The theater is three miles away from their dorm, which is why they opted for the bikes.

They’re on their way back now, and Phil’s legs feel like lead. He’s bone-deep tired and it seems to have hit him all at once.

A wave of relief washes over him when they turn onto their street.

“What should we do now?” Adam asks as they park and lock their bikes. “Dry season is so boring.”

“We could go check out that new ice cream place next to the union,” Scott suggests, with enthusiasm that would typically match Phil’s. “I hear they have amazing milkshakes.”

“Okay, I’m down,” Adam says happily. “Phil?”

Phil’s stomach had flipped at the mere suggestion. Something’s definitely off. He needs to sit this one out. “Uh, actually, I’m not feeling too well. Think I’m just gonna head to bed early.” He shrugs because it’s no big deal and he doesn’t want to hold them back. “You guys should still go.”

They’re both frowning at him. “You don’t feel well?” Scott repeats, a hint of concern in his voice.

“I’m just really tired all of a sudden,” Phil tells them. “I’m fine, I just need to crash.”

“Okay, man,” Adam says. “Hope you feel better.”

“Yeah,” Scott echoes. “Want us to bring you back a shake?”

Phil brushes it off with a wave of his hand. “No, thanks. I’ll try it some other time.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

By the time Phil makes it up the two flights of stairs to their third-level dorm, he barely has enough energy to kick off his shoes before collapsing onto the bed.

He falls asleep almost instantly, but it’s short-lived.

He wakes within the next half hour, stomach rolling and saliva filling his mouth at an alarming rate.

He concludes pretty quickly that he doesn’t have time to make it to the communal bathrooms. As it turns out, he doesn’t have time to even make it to a trashcan. He manages to get himself into a seated position, feet on the floor, but then it’s Game Over.

Instinctively, he tries to catch his stream of vomit in his hands, but it’s to no avail and warm, vile liquid spills into his lap.

He freezes for a moment, trying to wrap his foggy and sick brain around what had just happened. But he doesn’t have time to fret about it because the pressure is still building in his stomach.

He lets adrenaline carry him to the trashcan by his desk where he’s promptly ill for a second time. His arms shake as he grasps the rim and black dots dance in front of his eyes as he stares down at his mess.

He audibly groans because yikes, he’s really sick. He has that all-over ache and chills and — he projectile vomits again — unrelenting nausea. He tastes movie theater popcorn in the back of his throat.

He’s panting now, during a brief reprieve. His legs are shaking, barely able to support his weight, so he drops down right there in the middle of the floor, not wanting to make a mess of any of the furniture in the room.

He’s not finished yet. He’s still salivating and his stomach hurts. He needs to get more up. He heaves hard, hand pressing into his gut, but nothing happens.

“Guh,” he moans, then involuntarily heaves again, the nausea so intense that his body can’t stop trying to purge “Ugh.”

His head pounds and his stomach cramps with each unproductive heave. He can’t stop and the smell is unbearable.

And that’s what Scott comes back to.

Phil doesn’t even hear him unlock the door over the ringing in his ears and his sounds of distress.

So he flinches hard when Scott puts a hand on his back.

“Whoa, it’s just me,” Scott says. “Buddy...”

“H-Hi,” Phil breathes into the trashcan between retches, not able to even lift his head “Sorry.”

Whatever Scott says in response to that remains a mystery because a torrent of vomit gushes out of Phil at that exact moment and echoes noisily into the bottom of the lined plastic can. Then another.

It’s disgusting and it leaves Phil totally spent, draped over the bin like a wet noodle.

He’s not sure if he’s finished, but his stomach has stopped actively trying to turn itself inside out for the time being. He’s vaguely aware of Scott saying something. “—okay, man? What can... do?”

Phil can’t form words right now, so he just groans to acknowledge that he hears Scott talking to him. He swallows a few times to try and get his ears clear and to get the ringing to stop. His breath is still coming back to him.

He feels a cold hand on his forehead and chill runs all the way through him. “I’m gonna help you lean back, okay?” Scott says gently.

“‘Kay.”

Scott moves the trashcan to the side and guides him so that he’s leaning against the wall adjacent to the door.

“I didn’t know you were feeling this sick,” Scott says. “I wouldn’t have left you.”

“Thought I was just tired,” Phil mumbles, wrapping his arm around his aching middle. “I fell asleep for a bit, but when I woke up...” he motions to the trashcan and then down at his soiled lap. “M’sorry. I couldn’t make it...”

Scott kneels down next to him. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m just sorry you’re feeling so bad. You’re burning up, by the way.”

Phil shivers. “Awesome,” he deadpans. He can feel the heavy weight from his soiled pants in his lap. “Ugh, I’m so gross,” he groans. “I n-need to clean this up. I-I need to—”

“You need to just sit there and breathe for a minute,” Scott interrupts firmly. “You look completely wiped. I’ll help you get cleaned up, okay? But just give yourself a minute.”

Phil closes his eyes and rests the back of his head against the wall. “Okay,” he sighs.

Scott stands and pats his shoulder, then starts piddling around their room.

“Here, Phil,” Scott says after a while, and Phil opens his eyes to him kneeling back in front of him. He’s holding a water bottle out to him. “Rinse your mouth out.”

Phil takes it from him reluctantly and squirts some water into his mouth. He sloshes it around then spits it back out into the bin.

“I texted Jimmy to see if we can use his shower,” Scott tells him.

“What? You shouldn’t have done that.” Phil’s really fucking sick, yes, but he doesn’t want to get in the way of someone who actually needs the handicapped bathroom. Phil could make it to the communal bathrooms if he tried.

Scott raises his eyebrows at him. “It’s closer and he has a bench in there. He said it’s fine. He’s out of town this weekend anyway for a tournament.”

Jimmy is a paraplegic and he competes in wheelchair rugby tournaments regularly.

“Okay, I guess. But only because he’s not here,” Phil gives in. It’s secretly the biggest relief ever that he has access to a bathroom so close.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought you’d say.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

As Phil sits on the shower bench, stripped down to his boxers while Scott sprays him down with the detachable hose, he’s fairly certain he’s never felt so sick in his life. Even sitting, he has to lean against the wall of the shower to stay upright.

He’d be embarrassed about another guy bathing him if he had the strength.

Right now, he’s just grateful he landed a roommate who is a willing to go these lengths for him. Scott has just put a glob of shampoo in Phil’s hair when the nausea comes back to him at full force.

“Wait, stop,” Phil says as Scott starts to lather it in.

Scott stops abruptly. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“‘M gn'a throw up ‘gain,” Phil mumbles out frantically. “Toilet. G-Get me to the—”

He can’t finish his sentence before more liquid is spilling out of his lips and splattering between his feet.

Scott jumps back a little in surprise. “Whoa, okay,” he says. “It’s okay, man, it’ll wash down the drain. Just let it out.”

Phil leans forward to put his elbows on his knees so he can rest his head in his hands. He vomits again, mostly just bringing up bile at this point.

Everything feels hazy around the edges. “I don’t feel good,” he groans. He spits, still so nauseous and wondering if there’s more to bring up.

“I know, man.”

Phil’s vaguely aware of a gentle hand on his back while Scott uses the hose to spray between his feet to wash down the mess. As Phil watches he realizes that he’s seeing spots and he feels so hot all of a sudden.

It’s like his head is disconnected from his body. Everything is so foggy. He presses his feet harder into the tile floor because he feels like he's tipping forward. His vision is getting darker.

“T-Think... m’gonna pass out...” Even through his haze he’s able to put a name to what’s happening. He’s slowly, but very surely losing consciousness.

If Scott says something back to him, he can’t hear it. It feels like he’s underwater. He feels himself falling - as if in slow motion - and he’s limp and heavy, and it’s going to hurt when he hits the floor...

But he never does. Soft hands pillow under his head until it rests on a cold surface, and now his feet are being raised up. His heels are resting against something hard. His vision still hasn’t come back to him.

“Phil? Hey, are you with me?” He hears Scott talking to him.

“Mm,” he moans and blinks.

His vision comes back slowly, in fragments.

He realizes he’s lying on the floor of Jimmy’s shower, his feet up on the bench. A pins and needles sensation washes over him as he starts to get his bearings. He tries not to think about the fact that he had puked right where he is lying just mere seconds earlier.

“Okay, take some deep breaths,” Scott coaches. “You’re okay.”

Phil does as he says and takes in some air. “I’m a fucking mess,” he groans on an exhale, because the embarrassment is catching up to him.

“No, you’re not. You’re just sick. You feel any better in this position?”

Phil nods. And then he realizes something. Scott is sitting on the wet floor with him. His sweatpants are soaked. He’s still holding the shower hose and letting the warm water rush over Phil.

“You’re getting all wet,” Phil says.

Scott shrugs. “Yeah, figured I’d join you,” he says easily.

And in an attempt to bring some humor into the situation, Phil croaks, “That’s kind of kinky.”

He earns a spray of water in the face for that. “More like kind of necessary. You were almost out, dude. I had to catch you.”

“Yeah, uh, thanks for that by the way,” Phil says.

“Anytime, man.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

They camp out in Jimmy’s bathroom for almost 40 minutes longer.

Scott stays with him, even after Phil had been rinsed (again), dried and clothed. At that point, Phil was still feeling intensely nauseated and he wanted to stay in reach of the toilet. Something he figured he could do on his own.

“I’m not leaving you alone like this,” Scott had retorted, leaving no room for argument. Instead, he produced a deck of playing cards from out of thin air, and they played a mindless game of War until Phil’s nausea crested and he threw up again, making it - finally - into the toilet instead of all over himself or the floor.

Phil feels a fraction better after that upheaval, and he lets Scott talk him into going back to their dorm room to bed.

He is exhausted, after all.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Phil sleeps like a rock for a good four hours, until he wakes from some intense cramping in his lower belly. It’s dreadful, and he curls into the fetal position to try to get some relief that never comes.

He locates the trashcan beside the head of his bed in case he needs to use it and wills himself to fall back into oblivion.

But for an entire hour, sleep never comes. He can’t sleep, no matter how hard he tries. His stomach feels so sick and he’s freezing. He’s also very aware that Scott keeps getting up and leaving the room. To go to the bathroom, Phil presumes. And when Scott comes back, he seems to be having trouble falling asleep, too. He keeps tossing and turning in bed. Quietly grunting and groaning.

Phil decides to confront him about it when he comes back from his fourth trip to the bathroom. Even sick, Phil’s roommate senses are tingling. Something’s up. He turns their shared nightstand light on and pushes himself into the seated position with shaky arms.

Scott is gone for a long while. When he does open the door to their dorm upon his return he does it quietly, clearly trying to avoid waking Phil.

He winces when he’s sees the light on and Phil awake. “Are you okay?” Scott asks immediately, concern evident in his voice.

“Are you?” Phil returns. “That’s the fourth time you’ve been to the bathroom in the past hour. Is your stomach okay?”

Scott swallows hard. “Um...” he shuffles his feet.

“It’s not, is it?”

Scott looks down. “No. I-I’m sorry, I didn’t want to wake you.”

“You didn’t. What’s going on?”

Scott closes their door and crosses the room to have a seat on his bed. He leans forward to cradle his head in his hands. “I don’t think you want me to go into detail.”

Phil swallows. “Yeah, not really, no...” he agrees. “But tell me what I need to know. Have you thrown up?”

Scott shakes his head. “The other end is kind of my issue right now.”

Phil crinkles his nose. “Do you feel nauseous at all?”

Scott lets out a deep breath. “Yeah. I mean... I-I don’t know. I just feel really weak.”

“I know the feeling,” Phil empathizes, reaching up to run a hand through his hair.

“I know you do,” Scott groans. “Ugh, this is the worst possible time for me to be sick.”

“How come?” Phil asks.

“Because you’re sick. Really sick. You need looking after,” Scott tells him. “And with how I feel right now, I-I don’t know if...”

“We’ll just have to look after each other.” Phil tries to sound reassuring, but now he has a hunk of anxiety and concern for his friend swirling around in his gut along with his lingering nausea.

Scott doesn’t buy into his reassurances, anyway. “Phil, you almost passed out in the shower tonight,” he reminds him.

“Yeah, ‘almost’ being the operative word.”

Scott lifts his head up to look over at him. “You said I didn’t wake you?”

Phil shakes his head. “I’ve been awake for a while. Can’t sleep.”

“Because of your stomach?” Scott asks.

“Yeah. And I’m freezing.”

“Ugh, same,” Scott groans. Phil knows that’s the truth because he can see that he’s visibly trembling. Scott pushes himself back into bed and gets under the covers, but remains in a seated position, arms wrapped around his belly at the navel. “I think sleep’s out of the question for me, too.”

“Want to put a movie on?” Phil asks.

“No, too much effort,” Scott says. He reaches for the remote on their shared nightstand. “Let’s just see what’s on cable.”

Reruns of Seinfeld are playing, and two episodes or so help to lull them both back to sleep.

That is, until Scott wakes up heaving.

It wakes Phil, too. There is light still illuminating the room since they’d both given into oblivion without shutting the lamp off. Which means there’s enough light for Phil to see Scott struggle to lift his head up before he’s vomiting all over himself and his sheets. He hadn’t been able to locate the trashcan in time.

Phil barely registers what’s happening. He feels so out of it, and weak, and dizzy, but he manages to spring into action to push the trashcan closer to Scott so that the rest of his upheaval makes into the can.

Scott is groaning, hanging halfway off the bed, covered in foul-smelling liquid and still gagging. “Oh, gosh,” Phil breathes, a hand up to his mouth to try to keep his own nausea at bay. The smell is overpowering. “Dude...”

“Sorry, m’sorry,” Scott says through heaves.

“W-We have to get you c-cleaned up...” Phil says. But his vision is going cloudy again and standing up seems like an impossible task.

Scott shakes his head and spits into the can. “No... I’ll handle it. Y-You’re sick, t-too. You c- can’t...”

Phil wants nothing more than to help Scott, the way he did for him, but he’s feeling scary-weak again, and Scott is right. He just... can’t. He feels like his brain is melting.

“I’m g-gonna call Adam,” Phil decides with a brief moment of clarity. “We n-need help.”

Scott isn’t able to say anything to that because he’s throwing up again.

With an arm that feels like lead, Phil reaches for his phone and tells Siri to call Adam. It’s 3:00 in the morning and Phil doesn’t know what they’re going to do if he doesn’t pick up.

But he does. Thank God, he does.

“Lammers?” Adam greets him, groggy. “Is this a butt dial?”

“N-No...” Phil breathes. “Hey.”

Immediately, Adam is on high alert. He must be able to hear it in Phil’s voice. “Everything okay?”

“No... Scott and me. We’re r-really sick.”

“Yeah, Keene texted me earlier saying you’d caught a bug or something. Stomach thing, right? But now he’s feeling bad, too?”

“Y-Yeah. He’s in really b-bad shape, b-but I can’t... I-I’m too sick to help.” Phil winces as Scott moans pitifully over the can. “Can you come? P-Please?”

“I’m already on my way, man. Are you gonna be able to let me in?”

Phil swallows hard. He’s really not sure at this point. But he says, “Yeah, I think so.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“You guys need to go to urgent care.”

That’s the conclusion Adam comes to after he’s balled up Scott’s sheets and gotten him changed out of his soiled clothing. Scott is still hunched into himself, trashcan close by as he breathes through nausea. Phil is bundled under his covers clutching a plastic grocery bag that Adam had found because he still feels like he could vomit at any moment, too.

“Nah...” Scott croaks. “Phil, maybe,” he concedes.

“Phil definitely,” Adam emphasizes and meets Phil’s bleary eyes. “I’m pretty sure your fever is off the charts, bro. And Keene, you haven’t stopped puking for more than 30 seconds since I got here, and that was twenty minutes ago. That equals urgent care to me. Y’all are dehydrated and you won’t feel better until you get some fluids.”

Again, Scott isn’t able to give a rebuttal because he’s reaching for the trashcan again.

“I rest my case,” Adam says. “I’m gonna call Dean.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean, of course, comes to the rescue like he always does, lending his time (and his car) to the freshmen in need.

Phil had drifted to sleep by the time Dean arrives. He wakes to a gentle hand running through his hair and his surrogate big brother kneeling next to him. Immense relief washes over Phil at just the sight of him.

“Hey, buddy,” Dean says softly, smiling reassuringly at the sick boy in front of him.

“Hey,” Phil croaks back.

“We’re gonna get you guys some help, okay?”

“‘Kay.”

“Let me help you sit up,” Dean offers, and slides one hand under Phil’s armpit and the other around his backside. “Nice and easy, man.”

As Phil lets Dean hoist him up into the seated position, he sees Adam doing the same to help Scott. And he catches sight of the alarm clock on their nightstand that reads 3:58am. And he feels safe, and warm, and supported in Dean’s arms and all of that together causes a wave of emotion to wash over him.

He starts to cry, almost choking on a shuddering breath.

Frowning and concerned, Dean draws back to study Phil’s face. “Are you crying?” he asks and immediately sits down beside Phil on the bed and puts a comforting hand behind his head and pulls him into his chest. “Gosh, you really feel rough, huh?”

Phil nods into his chest. “Yeah, b-but that’s not...” he trails off, trying to explain the reason for his tears.

It’s gratitude. Pure gratitude.

He pulls back and meets Dean’s eyes. “Just... thanks for c-coming.” He meets Adam’s eyes too. “B-Both of you.”

Dean runs his hand through Phil’s hair again, eyes fond. “Of course, kid,” he says easily. He stands from the bed and helps Phil do the same, so they can all start heading down to the car. “Now c’mon, lean on me. I got you.”

“You’re gonna be okay,” Adam says, echoing the sentiment that’s felt throughout the room.

. . . And they were.

Fin.

Chapter 22: take the wheel

Notes:

Characters: Adam Groves, Rhett Molloy, Margie Groves, Cory Price

Summary: Rhett being the responsible voice of reason? Freaking bizarre.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting, mentions of a traumatic car wreck, strong language

Part 1

It’s Sunday, late afternoon.

Adam returns to his dorm room after taking a bathroom break during his all-day studying-sesh. His roommate, Rhett - who couldn’t care less about studying and had been sleeping and snoring so loudly that Adam had contemplated going to the over-crowded library - is now awake and sitting up on his bed, a scowl on his face.

“Hey,” Adam acknowledges.

“Where’ve you been?” Rhett asks in return.

“Uh, the bathroom,” Adam answers dully, used to Rhett’s hostility by now. “You make it sound like a crime.”

“It is when your phone keeps going off,” Rhett huffs. “Woke me up.”

“Oh, shit. My bad, man,” Adam says genuinely. He didn’t mean for that to happen. He definitely prefers Rhett asleep as opposed to awake, even if it means he has to listen to Rhett’s jackhammer snoring. He reaches for his phone that he’d left on his desk to take a look.

Sure enough, there are four missed calls from his dad, and a text that says: CALL ME.

Adam’s stomach drops. Usually the only way he and his dad communicate via phone is through ridiculous and silly memes. He has a bad feeling about this.

He tells Siri to “call Dad” and he holds his breath.

His dad answers on the first ring. “Adam?”

“Hey, Dad,” Adam greets cautiously. “Sorry I missed your calls. I was—” he breaks off because he can faintly hear what sounds like his mother crying in the background. He swallows hard. “I-Is that Mom? Is everything okay?”

His dad sighs. “No, buddy. It’s not.”

Adam takes a seat on his bed, acutely aware that Rhett is watching him. Listening.

“We just got off the phone with your Aunt Rita,” his dad continues, and there’s a bit of a shake in his voice, too. “Cory’s been in a car accident. He’s in critical condition at Monroe Hospital.”

It takes a moment for Adam to process those words. His ears start to ring. The palms of his hands turn sweaty.

“Adam, are you there?” his dad asks gently.

“Yeah, m’here,” he answers, feeling like he’s on auto-pilot. “H-He’s gonna be okay, right?”

His dad is quiet for a few beats. “I wish I could tell you that, kiddo.”

Oh, God. He feels like he can’t breathe. “T-This can’t be happening,” he stutters out. “W-What... I don’t... D-Dad...?”

“Adam, I need you to take a deep breath and listen to what I tell you. Can you do that, pal?”

Adam sucks in a deep breath. “Y-Yeah.” His dad has always been able to keep him grounded during high times of anxiety.

“Okay, good. When we hang up, I want you to call Margie. I’ve already spoken with her. She thinks she’s able to borrow a friend’s car to come pick you up. Your mother and I will be catching the next flight up there. We want you and Margie to stay together until we get to you. Your aunt knows you’re coming.”

Adam nods. Whispers, “Okay, Dad.”

“I love you, son. Stay with Margie.”

And then he hangs up.

Adam’s chest hurts. He blinks down at his phone, trying to determine if he’s awake or if this is just some really bad dream. He feels wetness on his cheeks.

“Groves?”

He lifts his head up.

Rhett’s frowning at him from his bed. “You good?” What looks like genuine concern is plastered all over his face. Adam’s never seen him look like that before.

It’s kind of unsettling.

“Um...” Adam isn’t sure if he can put into words what’s going on right now. He’s very aware of how noisily he’s breathing. He feels like he can’t get enough air in. He shakes his head. “I-I have to call my sister.”

So he does.

She picks up on the first ring, too. “I’m on my way,” she tells him, without a hello. “Are you okay?” She’s been crying, too.

“No,” he answers bluntly. “Are you?”

“No.” She lets out a deep breath. “Meet me d-downstairs, okay? I’ll be there in seven.”

“Okay,” he croaks out. “Margie... what if he...?”

“We can’t think about that right now,” she says firmly. “We just need to get there.”

Adam nods. “Right, o-okay,” he says shakily. “I’ll meet you downstairs.” He hangs up. He can’t move.

Cory.

He can’t help but picture the worst.

It makes him feel sick. Physically sick.

“Adam?” Rhett says cautiously. “What’s going on, man?” Adam blinks and startles when he sees that Rhett has moved from his bed and is now sitting on Adam’s, close. The concern etched into his face does nothing to help the churning in Adam’s gut.

Adam runs his hands over his face. “My brother’s been in a car wreck,” he manages over the lump in his throat. “He’s in c-critical condition.”

Rhett’s brow furrows. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

Well, technically, he doesn’t. Technically Cory is his cousin. A year behind him and Margie. His dad had died of cancer when he was really young. Aunt Rita and Cory had lived with them on the farm when they were growing up. The three of them had been inseparable all the way up through middle school. But then Aunt Rita met and married Cory’s stepdad, Cal. And they moved up here to Indiana shortly after. Cal had been offered a job they couldn’t refuse.

Cory’s the whole reason Adam and Margie even looked into coming to Hudson University. They chose this school so they could be close to him again.

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Adam growls and stands up. “And you’ve literally met him before. You just don’t pay attention. You don’t care.”

He bites down on his lip. He’s not usually that rude, even to Rhett who’s ruder than that daily. He’s just worked up right now.

“I’m sorry, man... That... I just—” Adam mumbles out an apology. Tears are still slipping down his face. The room feels like it’s spinning. His legs feel weak.

“Don’t apologize when you say things you mean,” Rhett says. “Jesus, you need to grow a pair sometimes, Groves.”

Adam backs up so he’s leaning against the wall by the door. He doesn’t feel good.

“Dude, are you gonna hurl?” Rhett asks. “You look like you’re gonna hurl...” he stands, takes a couple steps closer. “Come sit back down.”

Adam swallows. “No, I-I have to get ready. Margie’s gonna be here any minute... she’s driving us to the hospital.”

“Is she as worked up about this as you are?” Rhett asks.

“Yeah, probably,” Adam mutters. He braces himself against the wall as he bends down to pick up his shoes. His entire body is trembling. When he stands back up, his vision goes cloudy around the edges, and he stumbles a bit.

“Groves, for fuck’s sake,” Rhett gripes and grabs a hold of Adam’s arm to steady him. “You alright?”

No. His stomach’s in his throat. He shakes his head. “Y-You were right. I’m gonna—“ he breaks off with a dry-heave.

“Oh, shit,” Rhett mutters. Thankfully, Adam’s desk chair is within arm’s reach. He pulls it over and not-so-gently pushes Adam into it. He takes the shoes he’s holding. “Sit down. Let me get the trash can.”

He’s not quick enough. Adam can’t stop it. He folds at his hips and gets sick, messily, between his feet.

Ugh.

He can’t deal with this right now. Screw his stupid, anxiety-ridden body. Rhett’s gonna hate him even more now.

What’s worse, he doesn’t think he’s done.

He’s wasting time with this bullshit. He needs to get to Cory.

“Here, man.”

Rhett returns with the trash can, and swivels Adam in his desk chair to face away from the pile of sick on the floor.

“Shit,” Adam groans. He reaches for the can and spits. “‘M so sorry.”

“It’s okay. We can clean it up. Don’t worry about it,” Rhett says, calmer, quieter that Adam’s ever heard him. He’s hovering close, not touching.

“I don’t feel good,” Adam pants over the can.

“Gee, I didn’t notice,” Rhett says. “It’s okay. Get it up. You’ll feel better.”

Adam’s stomach caves in deep and he gets properly sick one more time, thankfully into the proper receptacle. Then he’s left panting, drooling, dizzy over the bin. Empty.

As he tries to get his bearings, he’s vaguely aware of his phone ringing.

Rhett answers it, and Adam can hear him talking in low tones to the person on the other end. He can’t make out the words over the ringing in his ears.

He jumps when a hand is placed on his back. “Groves, you good?” Rhett’s voice floats into his consciousness. “That was your sister. She’s here.”

Adam pushes himself away from the bin with shaky arms. He blinks. Tries to focus on Rhett’s face.

“I’m gonna drive you guys to the hospital. Let me help you get your shoes on.”

“Wait, you’re gonna drive us?” Adam echoes, confused.

“Yeah, your sister sounds pretty upset, too. I don’t think either one of you should be behind the wheel of a car right now.” Rhett kneels down and slides Adam’s shoes on for him.

Adam processes that. Rhett being the responsible voice of reason? Freaking bizarre. “O-Okay. Uh, thanks, man.”

Rhett nods, barely acknowledging the thanks. “You still feel sick?” he asks. “Need another minute?”

Adam shakes his head. “No... I-I think I’m good now.” His mouth tastes disgusting.

“Okay, let me get some things together and then we can go,” Rhett tells him. He grabs Adam’s water bottle from his nightstand. “Here, rinse your mouth out.”

It’s like he read Adam’s mind.

Adam watches in awe as Rhett grabs some things he hadn’t even thought of while he sips on the water. Like some granola bars and a phone charger... even a deck of playing cards. He grabs a spare change of clothes for Adam, too, and stuffs it all into one of those free drawstring bags they got during Welcome Week. Then he throws an old towel over where Adam had gotten sick earlier, to be dealt with later.

He pockets his own phone and tugs on his jacket. Then he grabs one for Adam. “You ready?” he asks, holding the jacket out to him. “Bring your water.”

Adam nods, and stands. Rhett helps him thread his arms through his jacket and hands him his phone.

Then he guides Adam out the door, down the stairs, and out into the cool autumn air.

Adam lets Rhett take the wheel.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Part 2

Adam doesn’t remember the ride to the hospital.

Not really.

It’s a blur. Everything since the moment he got the news that Cory’s in the hospital has been a blur. All he knows is Rhett gets them there.

He blinks and the next thing he knows he’s standing in the ER waiting room. Aunt Rita has both him and Margie in a tight hug, and she’s stoic and strong, the same way she’s always been, and is taking a handkerchief up to their cheeks and wiping the tears that linger there.

“Now stop that, stop that, both of you,” she scolds them, but is definitely teary-eyed herself. “We don’t need any tears right now. We need prayer and good energy, and oh, who’s this?” she asks, noticing Rhett who is still lingering timidly behind the twins.

Margie collects herself enough to introduce Rhett. “T-This is Rhett,” she tells her aunt. “He’s Adam’s roommate. He d-drove us here.”

So Aunt Rita goes and hugs him too, and he looks so out of place that under any other circumstance Adam would’ve busted out laughing at the expression on his face. “Well, aren’t you a blessing,” she tells him in that sweet, southern drawl she has.

Rhett, red-faced and nervous, clears his throat. “Y-You know, ma’am, my mom used to tell me that tears are silent prayers taking on a physical form.”

Holy shit, did those words actually come out of the rough and crude Rhett that Adam thought he knew? Nothing is right in this Universe right now.

“Oh, well in that case, dears, you can cry all you need,” Aunt Rita tells the twins, and pulls them back in, too, so now the four of them are just hugging, embracing, in the middle of the waiting room, and Adam hates it. He hates when situations are so serious that they warrant hugs.

So he pulls away first. “A-Aunt Rita... please... just tell us about Cory,” he says shakily.

So she does. They sit down — Rhett included (Adam isn’t entirely sure why he’s still here) — and Aunt Rita tells them all she knows.

Cory’s in a coma. He’s needing help to breathe at the moment. He has at least three fractures in his left leg, one being his femur. His right wrist is completely shattered. They’re not yet sure about the extent of injury to his spine; they won’t know that until he wakes up. If he wakes up. There are many unknowns, Aunt Rita tells them.

Too many unknowns, Adam thinks.

Cory had been driving alone, so they’re not sure the reason for the crash. There were no witnesses. He had been found on the side of road, ejected from his flipped car that had hit a guardrail.

“He’s in surgery right now. He was bleeding internally, they think from blunt trauma to one of his kidneys.”

“Oh, gosh,” Margie breathes, she’s holding hands with Adam, and with the other she’s holding onto Aunt Rita’s knee.

Adam is vaguely aware of Rhett’s hand resting on his shoulder on the other side of him.

"Right right now I’m just thanking the heavens that they found him and he’s alive," Aunt Rita says. "I-I know he’s really hurt, but... he’s alive, and right now I... we need to hold onto that. He’s alive.”

Adam swallows over the lump in his throat. He wants to shout at her. What if he succumbs to his injuries? What if he’s never the same? How in the world does she have hope?

He drops his head. “I don’t feel good,” he announces.

“I know, honey. I know it’s a lot to take in,” Aunt Rita says gently.

“He was sick to his stomach earlier,” Rhett tells her lowly, his grip tightening on Adam’s shoulder. “I think he needs some fresh air. Maybe I should take him outside...”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Margie agrees softly, rubbing Adam’s back gently. “Is that okay, A? I’ll stay here with Aunt Rita.”

“Yeah,” he croaks. He doesn’t know which way is up right now, and he needs someone to keep taking the wheel.

And Rhett does. He pulls Adam up and guides him to the elevator and out of the hospital.

They sit on a wall surrounding some landscaping. Adam feels like he’s spinning out of control. He takes a second to gulp in the cool November air.

“I was about to lose my mind up there,” he tells Rhett after a while, to break the quiet. He senses Rhett was waiting for him to speak first. His hands are shaking bad.

“I could tell,” Rhett says.

“I love my aunt, I do, but damn, she is being too fucking hopeful about all of this.”

“She’s trying to be strong for you,” Rhett tells him gently. And Adam’s getting really sick of hearing these soft tones from him. It’s so alien. “She’s torn up bad. You can see it in her eyes.”

“How can she just bottle up what she’s really feeling like that? I-I can’t do that.”

Rhett folds his arms across his chest and nods, actually chuckles a little. “I know, man. You wear your heart on your fuckin’ sleeve.”

“I’m afraid he’s going to die,” he whispers.

“I know,” Rhett says.

“And even if he survives, what if he’s not the same? What if he can’t ever walk again? Just... I can’t even think about it. I just wish this hadn’t happened. Why did this happen? I just want to be with him. I wish it had been me. I’d give anything for it to be me and not him.”

“I know,” Rhett says again.

“Stop saying that!” Adam explodes at him. “Stop saying you know. You don’t know anything about how I’m feeling right now!”

Rhett raises his eyebrows, barely even reacts to Adam’s little outburst. He just chuckles again - hollowly this time - and reaches into the back pocket of his jeans for his wallet. He opens it up and pulls out a newspaper clipping tucked behind some bills. He hands it over to Adam.

“You think I don’t know anything about how you’re feeling right now?” he asks through gritted teeth. “I’ve lived this, Groves. A car wreck is what killed my mother and sister. So everything you’re spouting off to me right now? Your fears? They’re my reality.”

Adam blinks and looks down. Sure enough, he’s holding the obituaries of both Pamela and Rebecca Molloy. They died eight years ago, in 2013. Which means Rhett had been eleven. Eleven.

Holy shit, I’m an asshole, Adam thinks. “Rhett, fuck, I’m an asshole,” he breathes. He hands the clipping back to him. He doesn’t know what else to say.

Rhett snorts. “You’re not an asshole, Groves. I definitely take that title between the two of us. Proudly,” he adds. He runs his hands through his long, sleek hair. “There’s no way you could have known this shit. I don’t exactly broadcast it. Just... just trust me when I say I know, yeah?”

Tears are consistently flowing silently out of Adam’s eyes. He bobs his head up and down. “Yeah.” He scrubs at his eyes. “I’m so sorry, man. That must’ve been—”

“It was a long time ago,” Rhett says stoically, cutting him off.

“Yeah, but I mean—”

“Groves,” Rhett warns with a growl.

So Adam clamps his mouth shut and sniffs. “You, uh, you have any advice?”

Rhett’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “Yeah. As he recovers - and hopefully he does - it’s gonna be a long road. Take it one day at a time... one minute at a time. And try not to get caught up in ‘what ifs.’”

Adam nods and takes in a few more measured breaths. He curls his arms around his middle; his stomach feels kind of achy still, with something akin to nausea sitting heavily in his gut.

He glances at Rhett out of the corner of his eye. “You don’t have to stay here, you know,” he tells him.

“I know,” Rhett says, eyeing Adam’s change in posture. “Your stomach still bothering you?”

Adam shrugs. “I can’t tell if I’m hungry or if I’m going to puke again.”

“When’s the last time you ate?”

Adam can’t remember, which is evidence enough that it’s been too long. “I dunno, man. I don’t think I can eat.”

“You need to try,” Rhett tells him. “C’mon, let’s head to the cafeteria.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Rhett distracts him while he eats a grilled cheese and sips on some apple juice. He tells him all about the last travel meet they’d gone on; Adam hadn’t made the travel team this year, so he stays back and trains while the rest of the swim team travels to compete. It’s hard to make the travel team as a freshman, but Rhett is so good it was a no-brainer.

“The bus is pretty sweet,” Rhett tells him. “It’s one of those fancy Croswell types. Padded seats that lean back, plenty of legroom... tv’s where we can watch movies... we watched The Hangover and The Rookie last trip.”

“Who’d you sit by?”

“Craig. He flails in his sleep. Hit me straight across the face.”

“Maybe you were just snoring and he wanted you to shut up,” Adam says.

Rhett scoffs. “I don’t snore that bad.”

“I have about two hundred saved videos on my phone that prove otherwise.”

"Get out of here, no you don’t,” Rhett says.

So Adam whips his phone out for proof.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Miraculously, the food stays down, and as it turns out, nourishment makes a world of difference when you’re going through a traumatic experience.

Adam feels more like a human again.

They take some dinner up to Margie and Aunt Rita, and Adam expects Rhett to take off after that. But he doesn’t.

He stays. . . . And Adam is glad.

Fin.

Chapter 23: thin line between tough and stupid

Notes:

Characters: Adam Groves, Phil Lammers, Coach Olsen

Summary: Adam’s first collegiate swim meet doesn’t go as smoothly as he’d hoped.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

“Eagles on three! 1, 2, 3, EAGLES!”

The swimmers break away from the huddle and head off to prepare for their first event.

This is it. Adam’s first collegiate swim meet.

A dual meet that Hudson is projected to win, no problem. But that doesn’t stop Adam from being wildly nervous. Coach still has really high expectations for all of them.

He wants to sweep the relays. He wants Hudson to go 1-2-3 in as many events as possible.

Adam is on the “C” 200 medley relay, leading off with the backstroke. Then he’s swimming the 100 backstroke and the 100 free, the third seed in both. He’s one of the only members of the team swimming his best events, which means Coach Jenning’s eyes will definitely be on him.

He’s never been more anxious. For anything.

He’s been exhausted lately, for starters. College practices are a step and a half up from his high school practices. His body has taken a beating these past couple of months, and he hadn’t been able to sleep even a wink last night. So he’s not very confident in his ability to perform at his highest level tonight.

What makes it worse is the rest of the guys seem so poised and confident, while Adam is quite literally shaking in his shoes (well, sandals) as he stands behind the starting blocks, waiting for the meet to start.

What if he fails?

His heart is beating erratically in his chest while he takes deep breaths and joins in with stretching and agilities with his teammates. He can see his entire family up in the stands, excited to watch him compete.

Margie even waves to him.

His stomach flips as he gives a little wave back, and he squeezes his eyes shut against a sudden surge of nausea. Oh gosh, this can’t be happening now. He really feels like he’s going to throw up.

“Groves? You alright?”

He flinches when Phil grabs ahold of his elbow.

He shakes his head. He doesn’t have time to explain. He pulls his arm out of Phil’s grasp and makes a mad dash for the closest trashcan, which happens to be near the bleachers for the opposing team.

Phil follows him. “Dude, are you sick?” he asks, standing close to Adam, shielding him from view, as he grips the edge of the trashcan in preparation for the inevitable.

“No, m’fine, m’fine,” Adam pants, trying to explain that this is just the woes of having a nervous stomach, but he cuts himself off with a heave. He throws up hugely into the receptacle before him, acrid, bitter sludge spilling from his lips.

His arms are shaking uncontrollably as his stomach empties itself.

“You really don’t seem fine...” Phil says, worriedly. “Do you want me to get Erin?“

Adam spits, then wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “No,” he says firmly. “M’good.” He can do this. Just as long as his stomach doesn’t go haywire again. He takes a few more deep breaths, right as the Star Spangled Banner starts to play.

Oh, gosh.

“Dude, we need to get back behind the blocks,” Phil hisses, and starts to head in that direction, but then seems to realize it’s disrespectful to move when the National Anthem is playing and stops.

With trembling hands, Adam pulls his goggles down to cover his eyes. Adrenaline’s pumping through his veins, because he knows he’s going to be called up to the blocks once the anthem ends. Sure enough, as the song fades out, the official blows four quick whistles, calling the backstroke leg of the relay up to the blocks.

Adam lets his adrenaline carry him back through the crowd of swimmers; he kicks off his sandals and makes it just in time to enter the water when the long whistle blows. His ears are ringing. Another long whistle.

No time left to freak out anymore. It’s happening now.

He grabs ahold of the backstroke handles and pulls himself up at the command to “Take your mark.”

There’s a loud beep and they’re off.

Adam pushes with his legs and throws his head back. The water feels ice cold and his body feels stiff as he dolphin kicks below the surface of the water. It seems like ages before he resurfaces to spin his arms. Four strokes into his turn, and then he’s on his way back. He feels like he’s just cutting through the water with barely any pull. His body feels like it’s giving out when he sees the final backstrokes flags come into view. He finishes into the wall, and Porter flies over him to begin the breaststroke leg.

Adam knows he has to exit the water quickly. His arms feel like lead as he pushes himself up and out of the pool. There are black dots dancing in front of his eyes. He can’t even see the scoreboard to get his split.

“Damn, Groves, nice split,” Phil tells him, shaking his arms out as he prepares for the freestyle leg. “22.9. You even beat the ‘B’ leg.”

Adam blinks. No fucking way. He’s never broken 23 seconds before.

“Thanks,” he breathes through panting breaths, completely stunned. “G-Go get ‘em, Lammers.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Their relay comes in third, giving Coach Jennings just what he had wanted: to sweep the event.

After they swim, they’re supposed to do some laps in the diving well to loosen back up and recover before they go talk to their coaches about the swim.

Adam makes his way over on legs that feel like Jello. The relief of his first event being finished is overwhelming, but his stomach is turning sickly with the thought of having to go through all of that two more times for his next races. He’s so tired and his ears are still ringing and he feels hot and cold all at the same time.

“Groves.” Coach Olsen approaches him before he can slide into the warm-down pool.

He blinks. “Yes sir?”

“That was a nice split,” Olsen acknowledges, and takes ahold of his elbow to pull him away from the edge of the pool and close to the locker room door. He folds his arms. “But I need an explanation for why you were late getting to the blocks. You know Jennings is considering you for the travel team next year. Pulling stunts like that isn’t going to convince him.”

Adam freezes under his scrutiny and he feels his face drain of color. “I-I’m sorry,” he stammers out, desperate to make Coach Olsen understand. His hands feel numb, his knees feel weak. “I-I got sick r-right before... I h-had to find a t-trashcan...” He looks down at his feet, loathing himself for letting his coaches down. He knows Olsen has put a lot of stock in him, and has been talking him up to Coach Jennings. Gosh, he blew it. “It won’t h-happen again.”

“Wait, you got sick?” Coach Olsen repeats, and his entire demeanor changes. Softens. “You’re ill?”

Adam squeezes his eyes shut. His breathing is starting to quicken. How does he tell Coach Olsen about his weak stomach and crippling anxiety without sounding like a complete and utter wuss? “N-No... not r-really. I j-just—” he breaks off, his breaths coming in heavy gasps now. He might be crying... and he feels kind of dizzy...

“Hey, hey, hey,” Coach says gently, a hint of confusion in his voice. “Kid...”

“M’sorry,” Adam breathes. He can feel himself unraveling. “I’m not...” he trails off. “I-I can’t...”

Coach Olsen seems to understand then that Adam is spiraling. He puts a grounding hand on his shoulder. “Okay,” he says softly. “Come with me, kid.” He guides Adam through the locker room and into his office. He grabs Adam’s parka from his locker on the way.

“Here, put this on,” Coach tells Adam. “Then take a seat.”

Adam takes his parka, and as he’s putting it on he says, “I-I should be w-warming down. I need to get r-ready for the 100 back.”

“No,” Coach counters, still in that calm, gentle voice. “You need to sit down and take a minute.”

So Adam sits down in the chair on the other side of Coach Olsen’s desk. Coach takes his seat across from him and slides over a bottle of water. Adam doesn’t reach for it, though. His hands are shaking too badly for him to even attempt opening the top.

Adam closes his eyes and just breathes. His heart is still pounding in his chest. He’s too embarrassed to look Coach Olsen in the eye.

Coach starts talking, nonetheless.

“I’m proud of you, Groves,” he says. “And not because you had a damn good race to kick off the start of your college career. I’m proud of you because you’re a hard worker, a good person, and a prime example of everything that this team stands for.”

Adam doesn’t believe him. He can’t. No way is Coach Olsen proud of the weak crying kid in front of him. He’s lying through his teeth.

“You hearing me, son?”

Adam bobs his head up and down. Yeah, he hears him. But he doesn’t believe.

There’s a brief moment of quiet, with only the sound of Adam’s shuddering breaths to fill the space.

“Adam, do you want to keep competing in this meet tonight?” Coach asks.

Adam’s eyes fly open then, with panic. “Y-Yes!” he says quickly. “I have to. The t-team is counting on m-me and my entire family is here—”

Coach holds up a hand to stop stop him. “Okay, fair answer. But let me ask you a different question: Do you think you should keep competing in this meet tonight?”

Adam blinks, then frowns. “W-What do you mean?”

“I want you to listen to your body. Do you think you’re well enough to compete in two more races tonight?” Coach asks. “And remember, there’s a thin line between being tough and being stupid.”

Adam can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Are you t-trying to tell me to quit?” he asks.

He hates himself, he hates himself, he hates himself.

“I’m trying to tell you to be smart,” Coach maintains. “You told me you were sick earlier, and frankly kid, you look don't look well. And I’m pretty sure your hands are balled into fists so tight that they’ve lost all feeling.”

Adam blinks and looks down. He’s right. Everything feels numb.

“I-I’m fine,” he says weakly, wanting mostly to convince himself.

“You’re not,” Coach says simply. “And that’s okay. You’re not the first swimmer to come through this program with competition anxiety. We’ll help you manage it, okay? But we can only do that if you let us.”

Adam puts his elbows on the desk and buries his face in his hands. He can’t stop crying. He’s so embarrassed and feels so pathetic, and to make matters worse, he thinks he might throw up again.

He doesn’t think he does anything to communicate that to Coach, but Coach figures it out anyway, because the next thing Adam knows, he’s leaning over a trashcan that seemed to appear from nowhere, and Coach Olsen is kneeling beside him and rubbing his back while he brings up some more stomach acid.

“Okay, kid. You’re okay,” Olsen says, when Adam’s stomach stops heaving. He helps him sit back in his seat. “I’m making this decision for you, son. You’re finished for tonight.”

Adam feels himself deflate and he sighs. “Okay.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Coach Olsen takes him to Erin, the trainer, and the two of them exchange a few quiet words while Adam rests on the padded exam table.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Groves,” Coach says after a while. “I’m going to let your family know you’re not feeling well and won’t be competing the rest of the night. You are going to stay in here for a bit and Erin’s going to run you an ice bath. She’s going to help you get rehydrated, too. After that, if you feel up to it, you can come out and join the team on the bleachers to watch the rest of the meet. If you feel up to it.”

Adam nods hesitantly.

Coach continues. “Then, come Monday, I’m going to set you up to talk to Pete Swanson, our sport psychologist. He’s helped dozens of our swimmers in the past, and I think he’s someone worth talking to. Does that sound okay?”

Adam has his reservations. Having to talk to a psychologist? Does he really need that? But as he lays here, feeling drained and sick, all because he was afraid of failure, he realizes... maybe he does. If this Pete Swanson guy can keep him from feeling like this, he’ll do whatever it takes.

“Yeah,” he consents softly. “Um... t-thank you, Coach.”

Coach pats his hand comfortingly and he nods. “I got to get back out there. Rest up, kid.”

Fin.

Chapter 24: not the warm and fuzzy type

Notes:

Characters: Adam Groves, Rhett Molloy

Summary: Adam has never been on the best of terms with his roommate, Rhett, but recent events have started to shift that.

Author's note: This was written for sicktember 2022's 1st prompt: "Do you know how to take care of a sick person?

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

“Do you care if I have someone over tonight?”

That had been the question Rhett had asked Adam earlier that evening from his spot on the bed.

“A girl?” Adam assumes. He’s sitting on his bed, too, finishing up some homework on his laptop for one of his psych classes.

“Yeah,” Rhett answers.

Adam raises his eyebrows. “You’ve barely left this room in two weeks. When’d you meet a girl?”

Rhett grins sheepishly. “At the hospital. She’s the sister of the dude I shared a room with in post-op. She’s goes to school here. We’ve been texting.”

Adam hesitates with answering because he’s really tired and was looking forward to a quiet night and crashing early.

“We’re just gonna watch a movie or something,” Rhett tells him. “Clothes’ll stay on.”

Adam huffs a laugh as he fills in the last answer to his homework before submitting it. He closes his laptop and sets it aside. “I should hope so. You’re not cleared for any physical activity yet.”

Rhett doesn’t usually ask Adam’s permission for this sort of thing, but ever since his health scare and perforated bowel surgery, he’s been a bit more... considerate. Maybe it’s because he’s had to rely a lot on Adam these past few weeks. Adam’s been bringing him his assignments so Rhett can keep up with his classes. He brings him meals and stays up late into the night with him while he fights through some reoccurring nausea (something the doctor had warned them might happen). Adam helps him get washed up and dressed when he feels up to it.

And Adam knows it’s been a hard pill for Rhett to swallow, having to rely on someone else to get his basic needs met. He’s spent his entire life lone wolf style and prefers not having to owe anybody anything.

But he needs people right now, so he can’t push them away. He’s softer. Vulnerable. Nice. Well, as nice as Rhett Molloy is capable of being, anyway.

“So, is it okay?” Rhett questions when a few beats have passed without Adam giving him a definitive answer. “I kinda want to get my mind off the fact I’m not at the meet right now...”

The swim team is at an out-of-town dual meet over the weekend, and both Rhett and Adam are struggling with the fact that they aren’t there. Rhett because of his surgery, and Adam because he hadn’t made the travel team this year.

“You and me both,” Adam says under his breath. “Uh, yeah, sure. You can have her over. Now I know why you wanted to get dressed today.”

Rhett gives him a grateful smile.

“It’s cool that I stay in here though, right?” Adam checks. “Because Phil and Scott are both at the meet.”

Rhett frowns. “Keene is there, too?”

“Yeah, Erin took him along.”

Their teammate Phil has a roommate who isn’t a swimmer named Scott Keene and he has been getting some volunteer hours for his pre-med program by shadowing the swim team’s athletic trainer, Erin. Adam is trying hard not to feel jealous that Scott got to go along with all the guys while he had to stay back. Normally, Adam would just crash with them if Rhett had a “lady friend” over.

“‘Then I guess you can stay,” Rhett allows.

“You won’t even know I’m here,” Adam promises.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Adam isn’t able to keep his promise. They know he’s there, alright.

He pulls it off for a while. He even accidentally falls asleep, buried under a sociology textbook, before Rhett’s guest arrives at 7:00. But when he wakes around 9 pm, he realizes why he’s been so exhausted.

He’s sick.

There’s no question about it.

His clothes are soaked through with sweat. His palms are clammy. He feels likes he can’t swallow despite his mouth filling with saliva. His stomach is churning uncomfortably.

He needs to get to the bathroom. Now.

He uses an obscene amount of strength to push himself up into the seated position, trying to get his bearings before heading for the facilities. He hefts his legs over the side of the bed so that his feet are on the floor. His head is spinning.

“Hey, you’re awake,” Rhett acknowledges from the futon, where Adam assumes he’s sitting with his guest. “Groves, this is—”

“I-I’m sorry,” Adam interrupts, bringing a fist up to his mouth. He stands on shaky legs, the urge to vomit putting him on autopilot. “I g-gotta go...” He makes a beeline for the door, leaving behind his keys, phone, and hell, even his shoes.

He wills himself to make it to the communal restrooms, using his hand for balance against the much-too-long dorm hallway. And he does. He makes it.

The second he’s pushed the door open to the nearest stall, it happens. A torrent of bitter, acrid sludge pours out of his mouth and into the toilet water. He grips the seat tightly to keep from pitching forward as his stomach heaves again and again, each time bringing up more stomach juice and bile.

“Dude, you okay in there?” an unfamiliar voice from the stall beside him asks.

“Yeah,” Adam answers between heaves. He feels his face flush red. He loathes communal bathrooms. “M’good...”

“If you say so, man.” The guy flushes, then leaves the bathroom without washing his hands, but it gets Adam some privacy so he doesn’t dwell on it.

Until...

“Groves? You in here?”

Rhett had followed him. And if Adam didn’t feel so sick, he might’ve taken time to appreciate that. Rhett showing concern for someone else? That didn’t happen too often. Especially not with Adam.

Adam isn't able to answer him at first because his stomach finds more liquid to expel. “Yeah,” he manages, once he gets a reprieve.

It’s quiet for a few beats. “I know you’re shy around girls, man, but you could’ve at least said hi before running out of there like a bat out of hell.”

Adam is panting, and he feels absolutely miserable, but Rhett giving him a playful hard time is exactly what he needed right then. It helps ground him. “I really don’t think I could.” He spits the remnants of bile left in his mouth into the toilet water then reaches up to flush it all down. He thinks he’s finished for now.

“Dude, you should’ve told me you were sick,” Rhett says.

Adam takes a few more deep breaths before standing up and emerging from the stall. Rhett is leaning against the sinks, arms folded across his chest, facing him. It’s good to see him on his feet. Adam rests his head against the frame of the stall door and sighs. “I didn’t know I was,” he tells him honestly, meeting his eyes.

“Well, I can tell you one thing,” Rhett says. “I know you’re here, Groves.” Adam closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I know, man. I’m sorry. I’m totally ruining your night.”

Rhett’s expression softens and he shakes his head. He lowers his eyes. “As if I haven’t ruined your past few weeks.”

It’s a thank you. Rhett’s own personal flavor of a thank you, but a thank you nonetheless.

It catches Adam off-guard and before he can collect the thoughts in his hazy mind to say anything back, Rhett has already moved past it. “Are you good?” he asks.

Adam swallows. “I feel like shit.”

“You look it, too.”

“Nice, man. Thanks.”

“This a virus? Or do you think you ate something bad? Nerves, maybe?”

“Hard to say with me, isn’t it?” Adam asks. He lifts one shoulder up into a shrug. “Virus, I think.”

Rhett licks his lips then bites down on his lip. “Awesome,” he deadpans.

Adam sighs and makes his way over to the sink to splash some water on his face. “Do you think I should go stay at Margie’s?”

Rhett furrows his brows at him. “What?”

Adam dries his face off with some paper towels. “You’re not even three weeks post-op. If you catch a virus like this, it could really throw a wrench in your recovery.”

“I’m not worried about it,” Rhett says casually. “Besides, I’ve spent almost every waking - and unwaking moment - with you these past few weeks. I’ve already been exposed. You staying the night at your sister’s isn’t going to change that.”

He has a point. “Okay. Well, I can just stay in here for a little longer. Let you finish your date.”

“You’re not staying in here. You’re not even wearing fucking socks. I’m gonna tell Jenny to go home, Groves. Okay? Now, c’mon.”

Rhett nudges him in the direction of the exit.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Jenny is far different from all the other girls Rhett usually has over. Adam notices that right away as she sits, perched with immaculate posture, on the futon; she’d clearly been waiting for them to return. She’s clean cut, dressed modestly, and doesn’t reek of cigarette smoke. Up until now, Adam had thought Rhett had a type: trashy brunettes. But Jenny is blonde, and absolutely stunning.

“Everything okay?” she asks as they step in the door.

Rhett ushers Adam over to his bed and makes him sit. “Jenny, this is my roommate, Adam,” he introduces them as he nudges the trashcan over so it’s within Adam’s reach. “Adam, Jenny.”

“Nice to meet you,” Adam greets with a bashful wave. Embarrassed about this whole situation is an understatement.

“Hi,” she says back with a sweet smile, then looks up at Rhett.

“He’s not feeling well,” Rhett tells her. “I’m sorry, Jenny, but we’re gonna have to cut this short. I requested an Uber for you to take.”

“Oh, that’s really sweet, but my dorm isn’t far,” Jenny says. “I can walk. You should just cancel it.”

“It’s late,” Rhett says. “I insist.”

Jenny grabs her purse and stands up. “Okay. Well, thank you,” she says. “I had a really good time, Rhett.”

“Me too.”

“I hope you feel better, Adam,” Jenny tells him.

“Thanks. Sorry about all this.”

“Let me walk you down,” Rhett says.

Jenny declines. “You’re supposed to be resting,” she says knowingly. “You can just text me the details.”

So Rhett settles on walking her to the door.

“Are you guys gonna be okay?” she wonders, then lowers her voice. “Do you even know how to take care of a sick person?” she asks Rhett.

Adam smiles to himself. He likes Jenny.

“Wow. Dang, shots fired already, Jenny?” Rhett says.

Jenny giggles and lifts her hands up in mock surrender. “Sorry. You just don’t seem like the ‘warm and fuzzy type,’” she explains.

“Yeah, he’s not,” Adam pipes up.

“Yeah, I’m not,” Rhett admits. “Adam’s a big boy. He can take care of himself. I’m supposed to be resting remember?”

“Very true,” Jenny allows. “Well, if you guys need anything, just call me.” She meets Adam’s eyes at that. “I’ll be around, okay?”

“We’ll be fine,” Rhett tells her. “I promise.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that. Call me soon, okay?” She reaches to squeeze Rhett’s hand gently, then turns on her heel and leaves.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Please tell me you’re not gonna stick to your ‘one night only’ policy with her,” Adam says, once Jenny is gone and Rhett has flopped back onto his bed.

“My what?” Rhett asks, eyebrows raised.

“You know what. You’ve had tons of girls up to our room, and not one has been a repeat guest. You gonna deny that pattern?”

Rhett snorts softly. “No, I’m not gonna deny it.”

“Jenny’s different than the rest. And you seem to really like her.”

Rhett doesn’t say anything to that, but Adam catches a glimmer of sadness on his face. Rhett quickly changes the subject by clearing his throat and meeting Adam’s eyes. “You alright, Groves? Need anything before I crash?”

Everything Adam might need for his upset stomach is in reach. “I’m all set. What about you?”

Rhett lets out a wavering deep breath, which just confirms what Adam had seen moments earlier. But his voice is steady when he says, “I’m all set, too.”

Adam frowns, unsure what brought on this wave of emotion from his ordinarily stoic roommate. He feels like he needs to say something. “Hey, Rhett?”

Rhett locks eyes with him. “Yeah?”

“What you said earlier in the bathroom... You haven’t ruined anything these past few weeks, man, okay? I mean that.”

Rhett’s facial expression is unreadable as he processes that. Adam holds his breath.

When he does finally speak, he’s back to being rough and cool, with a hint of exasperation in his voice. “Groves, do you remember a few minutes ago when Jenny accused me - correctly - of not being the ‘warm and fuzzy’ type?”

Adam ducks his head and grins, because he knows where this is going. “Yeah, I remember.”

“So what the hell are you doing to me right now?”

Adam chuckles, holding his hands up innocently “I just wanted you to know that, man.”

Rhett flicks him off in response, but Adam doesn’t miss the soft smile pulling at his lips. “Turn the light off, Groves.”

And Adam does.

Fin.

Chapter 25: two homes

Notes:

Characters: Adam Groves, Margie Groves

Summary: Adam's been having a tough time.

Author's note: This was written for sicktember 2022's 2nd prompt: Homesick

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

“What are you doing here?”

Margie is sitting on the bench outside of Adam’s dorm when he gets back from weights. He locks his bike on the rack by the entrance.

Margie stands and folds her arms across her chest. “Hey, sis, good to see you!” she says, supplementing an example-greeting of her own instead.

“Sorry. Hey, Marge, good to see you,” Adam half-corrects, half-lies because it is good to see her, and it’s not good to see her, all at the same time. She’s a piece of home and a reminder of home and it makes Adam’s insides twist. Nonetheless, he lets himself be swallowed up by her hug. She holds the hug longer than usual, and cups her hand against the back of his head.

“It’s good to see you, too, A,” she says softly into his ear. “I haven’t heard from you in a couple of days.”

That causes Adam to pull away from her, defensive. “Phone works both ways,” he says pointedly.

Margie frowns. “I’ve only sent you like a billion snaps,” she counters. “Nothing but crickets.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t really have time for snapchat anymore,” Adam tells her distractedly. He’s thinking about the mountain of studying he has to do tonight for the three quizzes he has the coming week, which means he’ll be up late, and Coach already told them that tomorrow morning’s practice is going to be breath-control/underwaters, which Adam absolutely dreads and being exhausted won’t help.

Margie snaps her fingers in front of his eyes and he jolts back from his inner spiral. “Did you hear what I said?” she asks, tilting her head at him.

“No, what?”

“I asked what you’re doing for dinner. Thought we could grab something together.”

Adam sighs. “I was just going to pick something up from the Union. I have so much studying to do.”

Margie looks at him like he has four heads. “It’s Friday night,” she says slowly. “It’s illegal to

study on Friday night. You have all weekend!”

“Except I don’t,” Adam says. “We’re working the concession stand at the football game after practice tomorrow and then Sunday Phil roped me into working the soup kitchen with him and Scott.”

“I think you can spare one measly meal with your sister,” Margie says. “We chose the same school so we could, you know, still see each other.”

“Yeah, remind me again why we chose a school 1000 miles away from Mom and Dad.” Adam feels a lump in his throat at just the mention of his parents.

“So we could be near Cory. Duh.”

“Who we’ve only seen like two times since we got up here.”

“We’ve seen him more than that,” Margie chides. “Geez, you’re quite the pessimist tonight.”

Adam can’t explain it, but he takes extreme offense to those words. He squeezes his eyes shut and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine, Margie,” he says crossly. “If you think I’m such a pessimist, then you’d be better off eating dinner alone anyway. I don’t have time for this.”

He turns on his heel, tears pricking his eyes, determined to just get far away from this interaction that’s making him feel so small. Margie’s supposed to be his lifeline, so why is her being here making him feel like absolute shit? He needs to get away. He starts to head inside.

But Margie isn’t going to let him go. She grabs onto his elbow, “Adam, hey, stop,” she says, her voice changing to that soft, calming tone that she always has at the ready for her brother. It’s the tone of voice that tells Adam she’s here and she’s not going anywhere. “I’m sorry, okay?”

Adam pauses and nods shakily, loathing the fact that she feels like she has to apologize to him when he’s being the clear dick here. He turns around to face her, wanting to reciprocate the apology, but what he says instead is, “I-I can’t go o-out right now.” He feels a tear roll down his cheek and he quickly brings both hands up to his eyes to swipe the tears away.

“Okay. We’ll stay in. You have your dorm room to yourself for a bit tonight, yeah?”

He sniffs loudly. “Yeah, h-how’d you know?”

Margie hesitates. “Phil messaged me,” she says. She bites down on her lip, unsure how Adam’ll take that news.

Not well. Adam feels like he’s been punched right in the gut at that admission. “What?” he croaks.

Margie swallows hard. “He’s worried about you,” she says timidly.

“H-He messaged you?” Adam repeats. “Phil Lammers.”

Margie nods. “He told me you’ve been really closed off this week and that you seem exhausted at practice. He said you aren’t acting like yourself.”

“He’s only known me for a month and half. What the hell does he know about how I act?” Adam’s voice is harsh and defensive, but his knees feel weak and no way does he have the endurance for it to last.

Margie closes her eyes, then licks her lips, wanting to be delicate about what she’s about to say next. “To me, it seems like he knows a whole hell of a lot,” she says gently. “He told me the rest of the guys are going to the volleyball game tonight. He said you didn’t want to go.”

“Yeah, that’s not exactly a crime. I told you I have a lot to do.” Adam sucks in the cool October air and shivers. His chest is tight and his stomach sour.

“I know it’s not...” Margie breathes deeply, sighing. “Look, Adam, I’m just here to see if you’re okay,” she says, her voice wobbling a little.

“Not on your own accord, you’re not,” Adam seethes; he can’t help it, and it’s not exactly justified, but he feels strangely betrayed. Numb. “You’re only here because fucking Phil went behind my back.”

Margie runs her hands through her hair. “Adam, c’mon. Don’t be upset with Phil for caring about you... for recognizing that something is wrong... because clearly” - she motions to Adam’s demeanor as he stands, practically shaking in his shoes - “there is.”

She takes a step closer to him, arms out like she wants to hug him again, but Adam feels like the world is caving in (he’s been feeling that way for days), and now that feeling is heightened tenfold. It’s like he’s being suffocated, and he’s dizzy, and he feels downright ill. Nauseous.

He extends an arm to stop her, and mumbles out, “M-Margie...” He lifts his free fist up to his mouth, willing his stomach to stay where it is, but knowing it’s already in motion.

Margie freezes and then asks with a mixture of reluctance and concern, “Are you about to throw up?”

Adam can’t verbally answer because he starts to gag, though that’s answer enough. His legs feel like jello and he’s too dizzy to locate the trashcan that he knows is next to the bench they’re still standing by, so he has to rely on Margie to guide him there.

She does; she tugs on his arm and gets him there, and Adam hates everything about this situation and quite frankly, himself, in that moment. Why? Why is he like this?

It’s Friday night, and fortunately, most students are spending it somewhere other than their dorm, which means Adam has very few spectators as he brings up his lunch along with the water and gatorade he’d drunk during practice.

“Okay, easy, easy,” Margie says, still gentle, over the numerous retches that Adam’s body puts him through. She has one hand pressed lightly against the small of his back and she’s using the other to run her fingers through his hair, something she knows calms him down. “Take your time, A. Breathe.”

He doesn’t deserve her.

When his stomach finally stops its revolt, Adam is left shaky, upset, exhausted, and uncomfortable.

Margie peels him away from the trashcan and says, “You should lie down. Let’s go upstairs.” She thumbs away the tears on his cheeks then nudges him in the direction of the entrance.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Now, they’re sitting on his bed. Margie is sitting criss-crossed at the foot of it and Adam has his legs stretched out in front of him, sitting propped up against some pillows. He has an arm wrapped

around his belly, an attempt to quell the deep ache he feels in his gut. He’s sucking on a peppermint that Margie had given him from her purse; it’s helping the last bit of nausea to fade.

“I’m sorry, Marge,” Adam tells his sister, his voice rough. She’s giving him time to be the one to speak first. He meets her eyes hesitantly. “Y-You kind of... caught me in a rough patch. I-I thought I was handling it.” He lets out a deep breath and swallows. “I didn’t want you to know.”

Margie smiles sadly at him and squeezes his foot gently. “I need to know, Adam,” she says. “Because I’m willing to bet you haven’t told anyone about this since you got up here.”

“I don’t want to. And I haven’t needed to,” Adam tries to explain, a frustrated edge in his voice. “Although Phil apparently figured it out, anyway. Besides, I’ve been fine. I-I thought I was okay.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, A, you know that, right?”

“That’s bullshit, Margie, because of course it’s something to be ashamed of,” Adam tosses back, without malice.

“You should never feel shame for something you can’t help,” Margie says firmly.

“Well, joke’s on me, because I do.”

It’s something he and Margie have always done: talk about his anxiety without actually naming it in their discussions.

Margie is quiet for a few moments, just rubbing Adam’s feet. “Do you know what started it this time?” she asks.

Ugh, the dreaded debrief. Looking at the inner-workings of Adam under the microscope. He shrugs. “A combination of things, I guess.”

“Such as...” Margie leads.

Adam looks down at his hands. He thinks he's starting to identify the main reason, and he's humiliated by it. “I’ve been feeling really homesick, Margie,” he discloses quietly, not able to meet her eyes. “I just... find myself wishing I was back home all the time and I’m so scared that feeling like this is never going to go away. Like what if I... we... made a mistake by coming to school here? What if I-I can’t cope? Mom was worried about us going to school so far away a-and maybe she was right.”

“It’s normal to feel homesick, Adam,” Margie says evenly. “You feeling this way, though... it started recently?”

“About a week and a half ago, yeah."

“Adam, I’ve been homesick ever since we got here.”

Adam looks up at her then. “Really?”

“Really,” she says sincerely. “Maybe not as strongly as you’re feeling it right now, but... yeah. I miss home a lot. Especially now that it’s getting frickin’ freezing up here.”

Adam huffs a laugh at that. “Yeah, and it’s not even winter yet.”

Margie chuckles slightly. “I know, I think I need to buy a warmer coat.” She’s quiet for a moment before sighing. “Listen, Adam. Even though I’ve been feeling homesick, I really have enjoyed my time here so far. And I know you have too. I mean, c’mon, in just a short month and a half you already have friends who have your back enough to reach out to your sister when they think something’s up with you. That’s... that’s really special.”

Adam swallows hard. “Yeah, I know it is.”

“And don’t you think if you went back home, you'd be a little homesick for this place, too?”

Adam takes pause at that, because yes, he absolutely thinks he would. He’d never considered that before. “Yeah, I think I would really miss this place.”

“You know what I’ve been trying to do?” Margie says. “I’ve been trying to reframe how I look at it. For a while, I felt like I’d lost my home. But now, I’m trying to see it like I have another one. Instead of focusing on what I’m missing, I’m trying to focus on what I’ve gained. It’s been helping me a lot.”

Adam processes that; he’s quiet for a long while.

“Obviously, easier said than done,” Margie adds quietly. “I know it’s hard to get in that mindset, especially when you’re so stressed out.”

Adam nods. “Lately, it’s like I’m playing catch-up all the time. And I’m having trouble sleeping; it takes me forever to shut my brain off enough to fall asleep, and even when I finally do, it doesn’t last because Rhett snores like a freaking jack-hammer and wakes me up. I’m just... so tired and I feel like I can’t give it my all at practice and that stresses me out, too.”

“It’s a lot,” Margie agrees, voice dripping with empathy. “I know.”

“Yeah,” Adam breathes. He gives Margie a grateful smile. “Talking with you helps.”

“Yeah?” Margie asks.

Adam nods. Talking with her always helps.

“Then do me a favor? Don’t let it get this bad before talking to me. I don’t like finding out you’re struggling from Phil. I’d rather find out from you.”

“I know,” Adam sighs. “I just hate burdening you with my shit. I’m ruining a perfectly good Friday night for you.”

“I shouldn’t even dignify that nonsense with a response,” Margie says bluntly, but she does anyway. “First of all, Adam, you’re my absolute favorite person in the whole world. The best kind of Friday night is one I can spend with you, even if that means having a lame-ass heart-to-heart in your dorm room. Second, you don’t burden me with anything. We’re a team. We always have been. Just because we don’t live under the same roof anymore and we don’t see each other as much, that’s not going to change. You can’t “burden” me with your shit because your shit is my shit.”

“Please stop talking about our shared ‘shit’... this is starting to sound gross,” Adam jokes.

Margie lets out a startled laugh at that. “Whatever. You get what I mean.” She shoves his foot playfully. “One more thing?” she says hesitantly.

“You want me to talk to Phil about this,” Adam guesses.

“Well... yeah.” Margie says, frowning a little. “That’s exactly what I was going to say. He seems to really care about you. And you say talking with me helps, so maybe talking with him will help, too. Especially with the stuff I don’t get as much. Like the swimming stuff?”

“Okay,” Adam breathes. “Yeah, I’ll think about it.” Phil’s apparently put a lot of it together already, anyway.

“That’s all I ask,” Margie says. She gives him a once-over. “How’re you feeling?”

“Better,” Adam tells her honestly.

“Good. I’m gonna have some food delivered for us. And then what do we say we FaceTime Mom and Dad?”

Adam hesitates. He doesn’t want his parents to know he’s struggling. But he’s been craving family time and he misses his parents so much. He hasn’t had time lately to call them. “I’d like that,” he says.

“Okay, then scoot over!” Margie says happily. She snuggles in beside him. And for the first time in a week Adam feels like he can breathe again.

Fin.

Chapter 26: as it turns out

Notes:

Characters: Phil Lammers, Dean Sutton, Jason Rhodes, Scott Keene

Summary: Phil gets really ill on the bus ride back from a swim meet. Dean takes care of him and winds up sick, too. Cue Phil feeling hella guilty.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

Part 1

It’s Sunday evening, and the swim team is traveling back to campus after a weekend invitational meet in Ohio.

“Ugh, I’m starving,” Dean complains as the bus passes yet another exit.  His stomach has been growling ever since they left Cleveland.  “When are we going to stop to eat?”

Phil stirs in the seat beside him and Dean realizes he might’ve woken him up. They’d been sharing AirPods, listening to Dean’s Spotify.

“Hmm, what?” Phil says groggily against the window.

“Shoot, were you sleeping?” Dean asks apologetically.  “Didn’t mean to wake you up…”

“Yeah, think I dropped off for a bit,” Phil says. “It’s okay.  Did you say something?”

“Nothing important,” Dean tells him.  “I’m just really hungry.”

Phil looks down at his phone to check the time.  It’s going on 5:30.  “We should be stopping soon,” he says with a yawn.  “But I have a protein bar in my bag if you want it.”

“You’re not gonna eat it?” Dean asks.

Phil shakes his head.  “I’m not hungry.”  He points to his bag in the rack above the seats.  “It’s in the mesh pocket.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Dean tells him and leaps up to collect it.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The bus finally stops for dinner around 6:30 at a strip mall with several grab-and-go options. Dean’s pretty sure if Phil hadn’t come in clutch with that protein bar that he’d be passed out on the ground right now.

Coach gives them 30 minutes and 20 dollars apiece to grab some food and bring it back to eat on the road.

“Think I’m going to go to Subway,” Dean decides, looking past Phil, out the window, at his options.  It looks the least crowded. “Does that sound good to you?”

Phil shrugs.  “Yeah, that’s fine with me.”

They get off the bus quickly to beat the rush of the rest of the team.

Despite their best efforts, Porter and Adam manage to beat them there.

“I’m still not very hungry,” Phil tells Dean while they wait in line.  “Do you mind just getting me some Baked Lays and a Gatorade?  I’m gonna go use the bathroom.”

Dean frowns at him, concern suddenly dawning on him.  It’s not like Phil to forego a sandwich.  “That’s all?  Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” Phil says quickly.  “My stomach’s just bothering me a little.  I’m fine, though.”

“Okay…” Dean says unsurely as he accepts the $20 bill Phil is handing him.  “I’ll wait for you on those benches outside.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean is so hungry that he doesn’t wait until he’s back on the bus to dig into his footlong sub. He demolishes and finishes it while sitting on the bench before Phil even emerges from the bathroom.

At the twenty minute mark, and still no sign of Phil, Dean starts to worry.  He really hadn’t looked too good…

He pulls out his phone to send a text to check on him, when he appears.

“Oh, there you are,” Dean greets him, standing up and pocketing his phone. He looks his friend over critically.  There are beads of sweat on Phil’s brow and he looks more than a little gray.  His eyes are welling up with tears, too, and Dean’s heart sinks.  “You okay?”

“Um…” Phil lets out a shuddering breath and looks down at his shoes.  “T-Turns out I’m not fine…” he says weakly.  His arm is curled around his middle.

Dean sighs.  He knew he wasn’t feeling well.  “Did you throw up?” he asks lowly.

Phil shakes his head.  “No.  But I’m r-really starting to feel bad.  I feel like I-I’m going to.  I j-just didn’t w-want to miss the bus…”

Dean can see that his entire body is trembling.  It’s obvious he’s getting worked up.  “Okay, man, it’s okay,” Dean tells him, guiding him over to the bench to take a seat.  “We still have a few minutes.  Sit down for bit.”

Phil leans forward with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands.  He’s panting lightly; whether he’s trying to hold back tears or bile, Dean’s not sure. Maybe a combination of the two.

“Just breathe, Philly,” Dean says gently, rubbing a hand up and down his spine, using the endearing nickname reserved only for times of high vulnerability such as this.  “They’re not going to leave without us - do you want to go back to the bathroom?”

Phil shakes his head. “They’re single-stall.  A-And there was a line behind me…” He swallows hard.  “Dean, I-I really don’t feel good…”

“I can see that, bud,” Dean tells him.  He grabs the plastic bag their food had come in.  “Here, hold onto this, okay?  I think you’re gonna need it.”  There are trashcans around, but they are all lidded.  It’s either in the bag or on the ground, and considering they’re sitting at the entrance to the Subway, Dean figures Phil ought to aim for the bag.  “Do you want me to go get Coach?”

Phil isn’t able to answer because grasping onto the bag seems to be the answer to releasing his floodgates.  His body finally succumbs to the nausea and he lurches forward with a heave.  Liquid rushes from his mouth in multiple waves and collects at the bottom of the bag. He’s coughing and sputtering, straining hard with each retch.

Dean does his best to remain the picture of calm, voice never wavering as he holds onto Phil’s shoulders to keep him from pitching forward.  “There we go.  You’re okay.  It’ll be over soon.”

He tries his best to shield Phil from passerby exiting the Subway.

“Ugh, s-sorry…” Phil moans at the end of his stomach’s rebellion. He’s breathing heavily as he tries to gauge if there’s going to be another round.  He spits, then squeezes his eyes shut.  “This is s-so embarrassing.”

“You couldn’t help it,” Dean says, reaching to push some hair that had fallen in front of Phil’s face out of his eyes.  Dean’s fairly certain he’s running a fever, if the heat coming off his forehead is any indication.  “You finished?”

Phil opens his bleary eyes and nods.  “T-Think so.”

“Okay, hang tight a second.  I’m gonna toss the bag out.”

Dean holds his breath and ties off the bag.  He pitches it in the trashcan on the other side of the front door, trying to ignore how it sloshes en route.

When he turns around, he sees Jason exiting Chipotle a door over with his take-out bag.  He’s looking in their direction.  “Sutton, you guys okay?” he calls out to them.  “Our 30 minutes are up!"

“Lammers got sick,” Dean calls back to him.  “We’ll be there in a sec.”

That news prompts Jason to jog over to them.  “Phil, you're sick?  What's wrong?”  He kneels down in front of the ill freshman.

Phil just groans.

“He’s feeling pretty rotten,” Dean answers for him.  “He threw up and I think he’s running a fever.  I want go inside and ask for some more plastic bags before we head to the bus.”

Jason digests that information. “Go on ahead,” he nods, “I’ll stay with him.”

“Okay.  Be right back.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean and Jason help an exhausted and dizzy Phil back to the bus where the rest of the team is waiting.  They quickly explain to Coach what had happened and apologize for being a few minutes late.

Coach waves their apology off.  “You’re right on time,” he assures them, then looks at the sick young man in front of him.  “Phil, kiddo, what’re we going to do with you?  We need to build up that immune system of yours.”

Phil really does have a way of succumbing to any illness that passes through.  “Sorry, sir,” he says shyly.

“Why don’t you take a seat up front so I can keep an eye on you?” Coach suggests.

“Can I sit up front, too?” Dean asks.  “I want to stay with him."

“I’d expect nothing less,” Coach says fondly, ushering them into the seats across the aisle from himself.  “Now, let’s get you boys home.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Part 2

Dean feels like he’s dying.

That’s not hyperbole.

He actually feels like his entire body is going to give out if he does one more lap.

They’re in the middle of their main set.  20x50’s best stroke, on increasingly faster intervals as they go.  He’s barely making the middle time intervals.  He won’t have a prayer for the last five 50s.

He finishes to the wall on his eleventh 50 butterfly with three seconds to spare and then Coach is whistling at him to send him off.

He doesn’t go.

He can barely move.

“Sutton!  What’s the matter with you, kid?  You gotta go!  You missed it…”

Dean is seeing spots and his stomach is sour, and he’s pretty sure he knows exactly what is wrong with him.

He caught Phil’s bug.

He can’t even answer Coach over the urge to gag.

Coach catches on then that something is wrong with his captain.  It’s not like Dean to just stop in the middle of a set.

Dean hates that he had to.

“Sutton, talk to me,” Coach says, his voice closer now.  He’s knelt down on the deck, in front of him.  “You sick or somethin’?”

“Mm.”

Coach seems to take him at his word.  “Okay, move over to the side a little, let your teammates get to the wall.”

Dean does. He pulls his cap and googles off and tosses them up on the deck.

His teammates check in with him during their brief rest at the wall. “Sutton, you good?”

“He’s not feeling well,” Coach answers for him.  “He’s tapping out.  You guys keep up the good work.”

Once his lane mates push back off the wall, Coach gives Dean clearance to climb out of the pool.

Dean barely has the strength to push himself up and onto the deck.  His arms nearly give out under his weight.

Gosh, he feels awful. It’s been a long time since he’s felt this bad.  The natatorium is spinning all around him.

Coach offers him a hand to bring him to standing.  Dean takes it and lets Coach pull him to his feet.

The change in equilibrium causes the ill feeling to multiply tenfold and it has Dean stumbling for the trashcan by the bleachers as saliva floods his mouth.

He’s sick in an instant, throwing up a slurry of stomach contents with a gush.  He heaves several times more after that, his stomach clenching hard and tears pricking his eyes.  The smell is overwhelming.

Coach Jennings is hovering close beside him, shielding him from view of his teammates, while Dean’s bout of vomiting runs its course.

“Just ride it out, kiddo,” Coach tells him.  “Take your time.”

It’s embarrassing.  Of course it is.  But most of all, Dean just feels relief.  Relief that his body is purging itself because it desperately needed to.

“Think I’m done…” he breathes after a few beats.  He spits.  “Sorry, Coach.”

“Looks like you caught that same bug Lammers has,” Coach tells him.  “I guess this is what you get for taking good care of a teammate. Kind of a rip-off, huh? You don’t need to apologize, son.” Jennings pats him on the shoulder. “Let’s have you go check in with Erin, okay?”

Coach guides him to the trainer’s office.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scott drives Dean back to his apartment in Erin’s car.

Erin’s orders.  “You’re in no shape to be riding your bike right now,” she’d said.  “But I want to get you home quickly so you can start getting some rest.”

“Thanks, Keene,” Dean mumbles from the passenger seat.  He has his cheek pressed against the cool glass of the window.  It feels like heaven.

“Not a problem,” Scott assures him.  “Happy to be your chauffeur for a change.”

Dean snorts softly at that.  He clears his throat. “Hope you’re not doomed to catch this, man.”

Scott laughs lightly.  “Me too.  If it makes you feel better, Phil already seems to be on the mend, and it hasn’t even been 24 hours.  He kept some crackers down before I left for practice.”

That does help Dean feel better.  He can endure anything for 24 hours, right?

Scott goes beyond Erin’s orders and walks Dean up the stairs to his apartment.  He helps him to his bedroom where Dean crashes almost immediately. Before he drops off, he sees Scott place a glass of water on the nightstand and a trash bin on the floor by his head.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean doesn’t stay asleep for long.  He wakes to painful cramping in his lower belly and he’s absolutely drenched in sweat.

He groans and pushes the covers off himself so he can sit up. He swallows a few times, trying to decide if he needs to reach down and grab the trashcan.

He decides that no, for the time being, his stomach is staying where it should.

He rolls his head to the side and taps his phone to check the time. He’d only been asleep for 40 minutes.  He has a text from Phil, sent 25 minutes ago.

Dean picks his phone up to read it.

Hey, Scott just let me know you got sick at practice.  I’m coming over.

Dean frowns at that and with numb thumbs types a reply. You don’t need to do that, man.  You still need your rest.

Dean hears a phone ding from other room. Then gets a message back: Too late, I’m already here.

Dean smiles softly to himself and moments later, Phil appears at his bedroom door.

“Hey, Lammers,” Dean greets, trying to make his voice as strong as possible.  He doesn’t want to worry the kid, though nausea is starting to creep back up on him.  He flips on his nightstand lamp.

“Hey,” Phil returns, leaning against the doorjamb.  He has a forlorn expression on his face.  “How’re you doing?”

Dean sighs.  He has a feeling he’s going to throw up in the very near future, so there’s no use in lying.  He runs a hand through his sweaty hair. “Feeling pretty rotten right now, if I’m being honest,” he says. He curls an arm around his middle.  “But you didn’t have to come over here, man.”

“‘Course I did,” Phil says.  He steps into the room to take a seat on the edge of Dean’s bed. He looks unbearably sad.  “I’m the one who did this to you.”

“That’s exactly my point,” Dean tells him, and reaches an arm out to squeeze his knee gently.  “You’re still not 100%.  You should be in bed.”

“I’m feeling loads better,” Phil assures him.  “I promise. Besides, you shouldn’t be alone when you’re sick like this.  I don’t know what I would’ve done without you on the bus yesterday.  I couldn’t even hold the bag I was puking in because I was so weak.”

Dean shudders at the memory.  “I know, bud.  You really scared me.”

“All I’m saying is, you took care of me in the moments after it hit me, and someone should do the same for you. And I know Jason has class tonight so he won’t be home anytime soon.”

Dean always jokes with Phil that he should be lawyer.  It seems he’s thought about this from every angle.

“Okay, man, you win.  You can stay,” he allows.  “But just so you know, I’m probably gonna go camp out in the bathroom.”  He swallows hard.  “It’s, uh, gettin’ to be about that time, I think.”

Phil nods.  “Okay, I hear you,” he says, standing up.  “Let me help you there.”

Dean lets him. And honestly, it’s a blessing that Phil is there. Dean feels pretty unsteady on his feet and he’s able to lean some of his weight on him.

Phil helps Dean get settled on the bathroom floor in front of the toilet.  He brings him a blanket and the glass of water from the nightstand while Dean eyes the porcelain throne wearily.

“You want me to sit with you?” Phil offers.  “Or do you want some privacy?”

Dean’s heart never fails to swell at how caring Phil Lammers is.  Who is he kidding? Phil being around makes every situation better, no matter how miserable.

“I guess some company would be nice,” Dean tells him truthfully.  “If you think your own stomach can handle what’s probably about to happen…”

“It can,” Phil promises without hesitation.  He joins Dean on the cold tile floor.  “I brought a deck of cards if you’re up for a distraction.”

Dean rubs his tender belly and smiles softly at his friend.

“A distraction would be great.”

Fin.

Chapter 27: off the hook

Notes:

Characters: Adam Groves, Dean Sutton, Coach Jennings, Coach Olsen

Summary: Adam has a stressful day ahead of him, made even more stressful with random drug-testing.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting, mentions of anxiety

Adam is stressed the moment he opens his eyes to his blaring alarm.

Nothing too out of the ordinary there.  That tends to be his baseline.  He’s just really feeling it right now.

He was up late last night studying for a test he has today and woke up feeling “off.”  Headache and notable fatigue from lack of sleep, anxiety about making it through morning practice on low fuel, and yep, a good ol’ sour stomach to boot.

He reaches to turn the alarm off and sits up in bed.

Rhett is already gone.  He always gets to practice early.

Adam swings his legs over the side of the bed and breathes deeply through his nose.  He takes a moment to press down firmly on the groove between the two tendons of his wrist, trying to alleviate some of the nausea swirling around in his gut.

It works enough for him to stand up and start getting ready for practice and his classes after.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Random drug testing can happen at any time.

And it’s happening today. Now.

Right in the middle of morning practice.

Coach Jennings whistles for all the swimmers to get out of the pool, just as they were about to start the main set.

“Listen up,” he says.  “Ronald Jacobs from the NCAA is here for his drug testing quota. He has the names of the swimmers who were randomly selected.  If you hear your name, you will form a line outside the mens’ restroom.”

Of course, Adam’s name is called, because the Universe loves putting him in intimidating situations when his nerves are already running wild.

He’s never been selected for drug testing before, and naturally, his anxiety increases tenfold.

“You have to drop trou and the dude, like, watches you pee,” he remembers Rhett telling him.  “It’s fucking awkward.”

So yeah, Adam is completely dreading this.

~*~*~*~*~*~

His stomach is churning like crazy as he waits toward the back of the line.  He’s trying to quiz himself on the test he has later that morning, while simultaneously worrying that he won’t be able to urinate on command.  He’s also dreading the main set they have waiting for them when they return from being drug tested.

“First time?”

Dean Sutton’s voice breaks into Adam’s inner turmoil.  He’s standing in line behind Adam, bringing up the rear.

Adam shakes himself and clears his throat.  “Yeah.”  He can feel himself trembling.

“It’s not so bad,” Dean tells him, giving him a reassuring smile.  He reaches to put a stabilizing hand on Adam’s elbow.  “Try to relax a bit.”

Adam takes in a deep breath.  “I’m just a little nervous,” he says shyly.

“Ah.  It’s because you’re on roids, isn’t it, Groves?” Dean says with joking tone that goes over Adam’s anxiety-riddled head in the moment.

“I’m not on roids,” he responds quickly and defensively.

Dean frowns, realizing his subtle attempts to lighten the mood for the rookie are falling on deaf, uptight ears. “I know you’re not, Groves,” he says gently.  “That’s why you have nothing to worry about, okay?”

“Oh. Right,” Adam says with a nod, trying to steel himself.  “Okay.  Sorry.”  He leans his back against the deck wall and closes his eyes, embarrassed.  He curls his arms around his fluttering stomach.

He hates that he’s being a total spaz in front of the team captain.

Fuck, he really doesn’t feel well. He lifts a fist up to his lips as he burps, mouth filling with bitter-tasting saliva and he swallows it back down. This might just be something more than his crippling anxiety.  He’s pretty sure he’s going to be puking today, and it’s feeling like soon.

“Adam, hey,” Dean says, and he’s touching his elbow again.  “Look at me.”

Adam reopens his eyes but he’s too intimidated to make any lasting eye contact with Dean.  He glances briefly at him, then drops his hand and looks down at his feet.  He’s a little dizzy now, too.

“What’s going on, man? Are you feeling okay?” Dean has lowered his voice so only Adam can hear.

Adam swallows.  “Yeah, m’good,” he answers reflexively, but it’s such a lie and he knows it.  He’s trying to speak it into existence, but his words come out breathy and over the urge to gag.  He lifts his hand up to his mouth again as he tries to stifle another wet burp.

“Yeah, no, you’re not,” Dean decides, resolutely.  He tugs Adam away from the line and over to a nearby trashcan.

“N-No, please, m’fine…” Adam says, panicked, en route as Dean guides him there.  He squeezes his eyes closed because he knows the second he lays eyes on the trashcan it’ll be Game Over.  But it turns out it’s Game Over, anyway, because his stomach caves in and he heaves, despite Adam’s valiant effort to fight it.  Reflexively, his hand flies up to his mouth to catch some of the stream of vomit. Warm liquid seeps through his fingers.

“Whoa, okay, this is happening,” Dean comments, and pushes Adam a little more aggressively.  “Okay, you’re there.  Try to get the rest in the can.  I got you, man.”

Adam opens his eyes as Dean nudges him forward so his mouth is over the trashcan, just as another wave gushes out of him.

He gasps for air and moans.  He’s not done.

He’s vaguely aware of Dean’s hand on his back, coaching him to get it all up.

With as much as Adam pukes, he would’ve thought he’d be used to it by now.  But it’s always dreadful.  And this time he has the added layer of witnesses to really drive in the embarrassment.

As his stomach continues to purge, he hears another teammate - he’s not sure which one - call for Coach.  And another volunteers to go get Erin, the trainer.

The nausea is still full-blast as these summoned people surround his little spectacle.  Adam is still holding onto the trashcan for dear life as heaves roll through him. Dean is still rubbing a hand up and down his spine while he fills Coach Jennings and Erin in on what he knows.

“I could tell he wasn’t feeling good,” he hears Dean say.  “His face just went white.”

“Oh, kid,” Erin sympathizes, because the amount of liquid that has gushed out of Adam in the last five minutes warrants sympathy.  Thankfully, it finally seems to be starting to settle down.

Adam gulps in some air and spits, waiting to see if there’s more.  There is.  He strains and more liquid collects at the bottom of the can.

“I’m pretty sure he has a fever,” Dean adds, during this.  “He’s really hot.”

“Groves, you should’ve let us know you weren’t feeling well, kid,” Jennings scolds without any heat.

“T-Thought it w-was just nerves,” Adam manages through parted lips, as drool continues to drip from his mouth.  His legs are trembling.  All he wants to do is sit down.

“Adam, let’s have you sit down on the bleachers,” Erin suggests, like a mind-reader.  “We can bring the trashcan over.”

“Mm,” Adam consents.

~*~*~*~*~*~

He loses the thread for a bit, while Erin checks his vitals. Coach wipes his hand off with a towel.

Dean had been right about the fever.  Adam’s temperature is a soaring 102ºF.

He groans at that.  “I have an exam today,” he says.  “I can’t miss it.”

“You can miss it, and you will,” Coach tells him.  “You’ll send your professor an email asking when you can retake it, and if he has a problem with that, you can send him to me.”

“Or me,” Erin echoes.

“Or me,” Dean says.  “Won’t be anything I can do about it, but you can still send him to me.”

Coach chuckles at that.  “Sutton, go give Jacobs your sample and get back in the pool,” he mock demands with a smile.  “You might be acting like you’re helping your teammate, but I know you’re just trying to dodge practice.”

“Ah, Coach, you see right through me.” He mock salutes in return, then grins at Adam.  “Feel better, Groves.”

“Thanks,” Adam mutters shyly.  He blinks up at Coach Jennings.  “I-I never gave my sample, either…”

Coach just waves his hand.  “I’ll take care of it. Jacob’s can find someone else,” he says.  “You’re off the hook.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Adam stays in the trainer’s office for the remainder of practice, just resting on one of the exam tables.  Erin’s orders so she could keep an eye on him.

He’s been in and out of sleep, cooling cloths on his forehead and under the pits of his arms and knees.

Dean and some of the guys swing by to see him after practice, and Adam takes the opportunity to properly thank Dean for helping him out.

Coach Jennings and Coach Olsen swing by to see him, too.

“How’re you feeling, Groves?” they ask, each hopping up to sit on the adjacent exam table, side-by-side.

Adam swallows hard and pushes himself more upright.  “Doing a little better now,” he tells them.  He’s surprised that they both came to see him.

“Listen, Groves, there’s something we wanted to talk to you about,” Coach Olsen says.  “About something you told Jennings earlier?”

“Okay…” Adam says, confused.

Jennings clears his throat. “When I said you should’ve let us - me, or Coach Olsen, or Erin - know that you weren’t feeling well, you responded that you thought it was ‘just nerves.’”

Adam nods.  “Right.”  He’s still not sure where they’re going with this.  “I did think that.”

“Even if you think it’s ‘just nerves,’ we want to hear about,” Coach Olsen says gently.  “Your anxiety has a way of presenting in a very psychosomatic way, so much so that you’re getting it mixed up with being genuinely ill.”

“If you’re feeling that bad, and it truly is related to your anxiety, then that’s something we want to help you work through, too.  Does that make sense?” Coach Jennings asks.

Adam nods, a lump of emotion forming in his throat.

“You can always come to either one of us,” Olsen continues, motioning to himself and Coach Jennings.  “Or you can reach out to your teammates, or to Erin.  And we can always bring Pete in, too.”

He’s referring to Pete Swanson, the sport psychologist.

“We have resources here for a reason,” Jennings tells him.  “Might as well use them.”

Adam’s eyes are welling up with tears.  He quickly rubs at them and gives his coaches a watery smile.  “O-Okay. I’ll… I’ll keep you in the loop.”  He meets each of their eyes.  “Thank you.  R-Really."

“We’re on your side, kid,” Jennings says.  He pats Adam’s leg and stands up.  “All we want is to see you boys succeed.  Let us carry some of the load.”

Coach Olsen stands up, too.  He reaches to give Adam a comforting handshake.  “Get some rest now, okay?”

“Yessir,” Adam croaks.

He watches his coaches exit into the hallway and, already, he feels a little lighter.

Fin.

Chapter 28: promise us

Notes:

Characters: Scott Keene, Phil Lammers, Adam Groves

Summary: Scott’s been skipping meals like it’s his job, to maximize library time.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

It’s Friday night, and Phil is worried.

Hey, where are you? Thought you said you’d be back before 9.

That’s the text that Phil sends to Scott at 9:10pm.  He bites down on his lower lip, waiting for a response.

It never comes, and Phil’s concern continues to grow.

He tries calling him.  Three times.

It goes to voicemail.

By 9:20, he’s laced up his shoes and recruited Adam to join in looking for him.

“He’s been working on this one paper practically nonstop,” Phil tells Adam, as they start their walk to the library where Scott has been spending the majority of his time lately.  “He said it’s worth like… 40% of his grade.”

Adam whistles lowly.  “And once again I thank my lucky stars that I’m not in pre-med.”

“Right?” Phil agrees.  “I don’t know how Scott does it.”

“His photographic memory probably helps,” Adam says, a hint of jealousy in his voice.

“Maybe with test-taking,” Phil allows. “But that’s just a fraction of everything that dude has on his plate.”

Between interning for the athletic trainer of the swim team, volunteering at church, working the concession stand at the gym, and maxing out on credit hours, Scott has had very little time left to take care of himself.

“I know,” Adam says gently, keeping pace with Phil’s swift walking.  “You’re really worried about him, huh?” he asks, as Phil tries calling him again.

“Yeah. This isn’t like him.”

He sighs and re-pockets his phone when there’s no answer.

Adam gives his elbow a comforting squeeze.  “We’ll find him,” he says.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scott tends to set up camp on the third floor of the library, which Phil knows because he’s a Good Roommate, thank you very much.

There are four partitioned desks stowed in a small open space between some medical journal bookshelves, which makes for rather private studying and easy access to Scott’s most desired articles.

“He’s not here,” Adam whispers as they scan the small space.  There’s one young woman sitting in the desk closest to them.  She has headphones on and is engrossed in something on her computer.

“No, but his stuff is,” Phil says, beelining to the desk diagonal from the woman.  Scott’s laptop, phone, backpack, two empty large coffee cups, notebook, jacket, his glasses… it’s all there.  But no Scott in sight.

“Excuse me,” Phil says, rather loudly, to the young woman.

She looks up, removing her headphones slowly.  “Hi…?” she says uncertainly.

“Sorry to bother you,” Phil tells her.  “But did you happen to see where the guy sitting here went?”

She nods.  “Yeah, he got up a while ago.  Headed for the bathroom, I think.”

“How long ago was that?” Adam asks.

She shrugs.  “I don’t know? Half an hour ago, maybe? I’ve been keeping an eye on his stuff for him.”

“He ask you to do that?” Phil asks.

“No, he left in kind of a hurry.”  She shrugs.

“No kidding, he didn’t even take his phone,” Phil murmurs to Adam.  “Thank you,” he says to the woman.  “You mind watching his things for a little longer?”

She smiles.  “I don’t mind at all.  I hope everything’s okay…”

“Us, too,” Adam agrees.

Phil tugs him by the elbow.  “Let’s go find him.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Scott, you in here?” Phil asks cautiously, nudging the door to the men’s restroom open.  The library has started to clear out for the night, and the bathroom facilities have followed suit.

There’s only one stall in this particular bathroom and the door closed, indicating that it’s occupied.

“Phil?” comes a breathy, echoing reply.  “W-What’re you…?”

A mix of relief and newfound concern washes over Phil at the sound of Scott’s voice. Relief because they found him, concern because he’s obviously not well.

The smell permeating the bathroom is enough to clue Phil in on what’s going on here.

“We were worried about you, man.  You weren’t answering your phone.”

“We…?” Scott asks weakly.

“Adam’s here, too,” Phil tells him.

“Hey, Keene,” Adam says gently, hovering awkwardly by the sinks.  He appears to be holding his breath, trying to evade the smell of sickness.

“H-Hey…” Scott croaks out, gagging on the greeting.  He groans and spits.

Phil takes a step closer to the stall door and gives it a little knock.  “Are you throwing up?”

It’s a dumb question.

Scott manages to answer anyway.

“Y-Yeah.  I’m so nauseous.  It’s n-not—” he hiccups. “—letting up.”

Phil’s heart breaks for him.  He sounds so distraught.  So sick.

“I’m gonna come in, okay?” Phil says, without hesitation.  He doubts Scott took the time to lock the stall door in his obvious haste.

“‘Kay,” Scott allows.

Sure enough, Phil is able to nudge open the stall door with ease.  And, being the only stall in the restroom, it’s of handicapped standards, allowing Phil the space to kneel down beside his ailing friend.

Scott’s body is draped over the toilet seat, forehead pillowed on the meat of his wrists.

Phil winces when his back arches to expel more bile from his innards.

“Oh gosh, man,” Phil breathes in sympathy as he hears liquid connect with liquid.  He starts rubbing his hand up and down Scott’s spine.  “You’re in pretty bad shape, huh?”

“Mm.  Happened… fast.”

He strains again, with nothing to show for his efforts.

“Can I help you lean back?” Phil asks.  “Sounds like you might be empty.”

Scott proves him wrong with another productive gush in response.

“Okay, never mind then…” Phil retracts over his own urge to gag at the sight.

“Guh,” Scott moans over the bowl as saliva drips from his parted lips, thick and fast.  “I-I don’t feel good.”

“I know, man.”

Adam taps on the open stall door.  “Anything I can do?” he asks, his face pale.

Phil meets his eyes.  “Yeah. Maybe you can go pack up his stuff?” He can tell Adam’s stomach isn’t fairing too well either by witnessing this scene.  “Maybe bring him some water?”

Adam swallows hard and nods.  “Got it.” He exits swiftly.

“Need to finish my paper…” Scott moans, because only he would be thinking of schoolwork as he’s spilling his stomach lining into the depths of porcelain.  “It’s due at midnight.”

“Scott…”

“I j-just have to finish putting in the references,” he mumbles, then reaches up to flush the toilet. He pushes himself back to lean against the stall wall and squeezes his eyes shut against the fluorescent lights of the bathroom.  He’s panting faintly, trembling excessively.  He wraps an arm around his midsection.

“I’m sure you can just email your—”

“He said ‘no exceptions.’” Scott says hoarsely.

“Okay,” Phil says calmly.  “Adam and I will help you get it done.  For now, just try to catch your breath, yeah?”  He reaches to palm Scott’s forehead and curses at the heat he finds there.  “You’re running a fever,” he announces, a sudden wave of worried frustration washing over him.  “Gosh, Scott. What in the world would you have done if Groves and I didn’t come to find you?”

“I-I don’t know,” Scott admits.

“You need to start taking better care of yourself,” Phil says.  “You’re running yourself into the ground.”

“I swear I didn’t know I was sick,” Scott says weakly, and Phil almost feels guilty for lecturing him.  “I felt a little off, but figured I was just tired.  So I bought a bunch of coffee.”

“That you drank on an empty stomach,” Phil says knowingly because Scott’s been skipping meals like it’s his job, to maximize library time.

Scott doesn’t confirm nor deny that statement.  “I was doing fine until the nausea hit.  Came outta nowhere.”  He opens his bleary eyes into a squint to meet Phil’s eyes.  “I can’t believe you guys came looking for me.”

“I knew something was wrong,” Phil says.  “My roommate senses were tingling.”

He gets a twitch of a smile at that.

Phil eyes him critically.  “You think you’re done… you know…?” he nods at the toilet.

Scott nods, though uncertain.  “For now, I think.”  He shivers.

“Okay.  How ‘bout we get you back to the dorms while your stomach isn’t actively revolting?”

“My paper—”

“One of us will type up the references for you when we get back,” Phil tells him.  “You have them written down, yeah?”

"Y-Yeah. But there’s a certain format…”

Phil nods.  “MLA. Right. I know you were homeschooled, but trust me, Adam and I have both had that format drilled into our skulls via the public school curriculum.”

He sees Scott relax a little at that.

“So one of us will type up the references, and the other will help you get changed and into bed.  Okay?”

Adam reenters the bathroom as this plan is being proposed, Scott’s backpack slung over his shoulder.  He has a water bottle from the vending machine tucked under his arm and Scott’s glasses in his hand.

“Okay,” Scott agrees.  He meets each of their eyes.  “Thank you,” he tells them, voice thick with emotion.  “I mean it.  I’m so t-thankful for you guys it’s insane.”

Scott’s simple gratitude causes a lump to materialize in Phil’s throat, to the point that he can barely even speak.  “You know we love you, Keene,” he croaks out and reaches to squeeze Scott’s knee.

Adam looks like he wants to knock their heads together. “That’s true,” he acknowledges. “ But dang, I can barely even smell the puke anymore over all this cheesiness,” he teases them fondly.  “Here are you glasses, Scott.  And some water.”

He hands the items over.

“Thanks,” Scott says as he takes them.  His hands shake as he puts his glasses back on.

“Rinse your mouth out, have a few sips, and then we’ll get you out of here, okay?”

Scott nods, and takes a swig of the water, swishes it in his mouth, then spits it out in the toilet.  He lets out a deep breath and takes a few timid swallows from the bottle, just as Adam had directed.

And while Scott seems to be in a compliant mood, Phil tries his luck with some other directions disguised as suggestions.

“You need to take a break this weekend,” Phil tells him.  “Promise us you’ll do that.  No studying.  No working.  No interning.  No volunteering.  Just rest.”

“Has anyone ever told you guys that you’re kind of bossy?” Scott asks.

“We prefer the term ‘awesome,’” Adam says.

“Well, that too,” Scott allows, and takes another small sip of the water.  Then he meets Phil’s eyes meaningfully.  “I promise.”

“Okay,” Phil says, satisfied, and stands up.  “Let’s get you home.”

“And my paper turned in,” Scott adds as he’s pulled to his feet.

“And your paper turned in,” Phil echoes.

He puts an arm around his friend and the three of them begin the slow walk back to the dorms.

Fin.

Chapter 29: non-negotiable

Notes:

Characters: Adam Groves, Phil Lammers, Scott Keene

Summary: Sitting on the floor of an amusement park bathroom is probably the grossest thing Adam has ever done. But it’s also probably the most necessary.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

“This day is working out perfectly!” Phil says happily, as they approach the line to the drop tower.  “I think the rain scared a lot of people away, but it’s completely cleared up now!”

“I know!” Scott agrees.  “This line will probably be our longest one, and it’s only 25 minutes!”

“It seems like it’s moving pretty fast.  I doubt it will even take that long.”

Phil, Scott, and Adam had taken advantage of the long Memorial Day weekend to go the the local amusement park.  It was a discounted park fee this weekend, and their college was running a shuttle from campus to the park.

It had been drizzling off and on all morning, keeping some of the roller coasters and more thrilling rides closed.  The boys had mostly just gone around to the shops and smaller rides. They’d eaten a big lunch at the popular pizza joint.  But now that the rain was clearing up, most of the rides were open.

Phil had been wanting to do the drop tower.  It was a new ride at the park, standing at 295 feet tall.  He’d roped Scott and Adam into joining him.

Adam wouldn’t usually mind.  His hometown has a similar ride - one that’s even taller - and he’s ridden it plenty of times.  But right now, he’s not really up for it. His stomach is feeling iffy - which is nothing out of the ordinary due to his perpetual nervous system - but he can’t imagine that dropping from nearly 300 feet is going to make him feel any better.

He’s planning on muscling through it, because his nervous stomach isn’t about to be the reason his friends’ day is ruined.

Although, while he stands here in line, he’s not so sure that his upset stomach is due to nerves.  He’s actually feeling quite poorly.  Like he might be running a fever, too.

He shivers.  Maybe it’s just because his clothes are damp from the earlier rain.

Whatever the reason, Adam plans on just getting through the ride and then reassessing his condition afterward.  He hovers distantly from his friends and focuses on keeping his stomach put, while Phil and Scott shoot the breeze ahead of him.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Hey, you’ve gotten kind of quiet,” Phil says to him as they’re approaching the front of the queue.  “Everything okay?”

Adam swallows hard.  “Yeah, sorry…” he says.  “Just a little tired is all.”

“Well, this ride is sure to wake you up!” Scott pipes up.  “I’m getting kind of nervous.”

Me too, Adam thinks.  Nervous he’s about to vomit all over this ride.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Adam’s strategy is to keep breathing and not open his eyes even once.

He pulls it off, too.

His pride depends on it.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It feels like forever for the ride to get them to the top of the tower. Adam holds on tightly to the harness, and then holds his breath.  He can feel his stomach whining as the ride rotates them slowly to the top.

Around him, he hears excited chatter from all the other passengers, preparing themselves for the drop.

“You guys ready for this?” Phil asks nervously from beside him.  He’s sitting between Scott and Adam.  They have to be close to the top now.

“No.  I feel sick,” Adam mumbles an answer before he can stop himself.  The nausea is so real.

“You do?” Phil says.  “What’s the ma—?”

But Phil isn’t able to finish his sentence before the ride starts plummeting them to the ground.

It’s quite possibly the longest eight seconds of Adam’s life.  The wind roars in his ears as they fall. His stomach leaps into his throat.  He can taste bile the entire way down. He keeps his mouth clamped shut and manages to keep his insides where they’re meant to be, despite the most horrible stomach drop sensation he’s ever experienced.

When they reach solid ground, Adam is afraid to open his eyes. The other passengers are whooping and cheering about how fun the ride had been.  Adam thought it was pure torture.

“Groves, you okay?” Phil asks worriedly, as he starts lifting his own harness up.

Adam forces his eyes open and is met with double vision and his world spinning around him.  He’s not okay.  Not at all.  But he swallows down the bile and says, “I’m alive, if t-that’s what you mean.”

“Dude, you look straight-up ashen,” Phil tells him, as he helps lift Adam’s harness off his shoulders.  He offers a hand out to help him stand up.

“Yeah…” Adam breathes, as he takes Phil’s hand and is hoisted into an erect stance.  He’s still swallowing down the urge to gag.  “I-I think I need to find a b-bathroom.”

“There’s one right by the exit,” Scott says, joining them.  “I saw it on our way in.”

Phil licks his lips nervously.  “Okay.  We’ll get you there, man.  Lean on me.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

It’s always a rip-off when throwing up doesn’t even make you feel better.  If it’s possible, Adam thinks he feels worse.

He reaches up to flush the toilet, black dots dancing in front of his eyes.  He’s out of breath and drained.  He fears that he might not be done, so he keeps in reach of the toilet.

Sitting on the floor of an amusement park bathroom is probably the grossest thing Adam has ever done.  But it’s also probably the most necessary.

He doesn’t think he can get up.

Another wave of nausea rushes over him and he hiccups emptily into the toilet bowl.

“Ugh,” he groans, and then his body jerks and another gush of undigested pizza spills out of him.  He strains, then coughs harshly at the unproductive results.

“Adam, man,” Phil says sympathetically from beyond the door. “What can we do?”

Phil and Scott are in the bathroom with him, but hadn’t been unable to join him in the tiniest bathroom stall known to mankind.

“N-Nothing…” Adam answers weakly.  “I-I’m okay.  Just give m-me a second.”

“Take your time, bro,” Phil says.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Now, Adam is sitting on a bench outside the restrooms.  He’s bent forward at the waist with his head in his hands.  He’s taking in measured breaths, relishing in the fresh air, praying that he won’t have to make a return to the facilities.

Phil is sitting beside him, rubbing a comforting hand up and down his back.  Scott had gone to buy Adam a bottled water, and is sitting on his other side, ready to offer it when Adam is ready.

“You feel really warm,” Phil comments gently.  “The ride’s not what made you feel bad, is it?”

Adam shivers.  “It didn’t help,” he concedes.  “But no.  I started feeling pretty awful while we were in line.”

“I had no idea…” Scott says.  “You should’ve said something.”

“I was hoping I was just imagining it,” Adam tells him honestly.  “Didn’t want to ruin the day.  So much for that.”

“You’re not ruining anything, Groves.”  Phil stops rubbing Adam’s back and reaches into his pocket for his phone.  “I’m gonna call Dean to come pick us up.”

“No!” Adam says, almost panicked.  He lifts his head.  “Don’t do that.  Y-You guys don’t need to leave…”

“We need to get you home,” Scott tells him gently.  “We’re not going to just stick you on the shuttle…”

“Don’t bother Dean,” Adam says weakly.  “I-I’ll call my aunt.  She lives close to here.”

“Groves, we can go with you—”

“No,” Adam says, as firmly as he can manage.  “I don’t want to be the reason you guys miss out on the rest of the day here.  Please.”

Phil and Scott make eye contact, considering.  “Okay,” Phil relents with a sigh.  “But we’re going to sit with you until your aunt gets here.  That’s non-negotiable.”

“Yeah,” Scott echoes.

Adam nods.  He had a feeling those would be the terms.  It makes him feel so loved he can barely stand it.

“That’s fair,” he allows. He reaches into his pocket for his phone, then tells Siri to call his aunt.  As it rings, he says sincerely to his friends, “Thanks guys, for everything.”

Fin.

Chapter 30: all in his head

Notes:

Characters: Phil Lammers, Dean Sutton, Scott Keene, Jason Rhodes, Rhett Molloy, Coach Jennings, Erin (trainer)

Summary: Dean retires into the adjacent hotel room, his team captain heart bursting at how readily each one of the swimmers is pitching in to take care of one another.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

“Okay boys, it’s a little after 6:00, which means you’ll have some time to walk around the plaza and get some dinner.  Everybody gets $30. I want you back to the hotel by 9:00 and lights out by 10:00. We have an early morning tomorrow, and a long day of racing.”

Coach Jennings is holding a team meeting in the lobby of the hotel.  The team had just arrived by bus to Faraday University, a college in Paducah, Kentucky and are staying at a hotel just off of campus in an area well-known for its walkable shopping and dining.  They’re here for an invitational meet, where multiple teams from all over the conference will be competing. It’s a two-day meet with both a preliminary and final session.

“Yessir,” the swimmers say in unison, then head upstairs to their respective rooms.

Dean, Jason, Phil, and Scott are all in one room.  Beside them, in a conjoining room, is Rhett, Ben, Porter, and Danny.

“Where are you guys thinking for dinner?” Dean poses the question to his roommates as they set their luggage down.

“Maybe Olive Garden?” Jason suggests.  “Carbo load?”

“Sounds good to me,” Scott says happily.  It’s obvious he’s just happy to be here, assisting the trainer with whatever the guys need at the meet.  It’s pretty cool that the coaches had allowed him to come.  Dean is glad.  Scott’s a neat kid.

“Phil, what about you?” Dean asks.  He glances over at him, and sees that he’s sitting on the edge of one of the beds, bent forward at the waist, head in his hands.  He frowns.  “Hey, Philly, you okay?”

“Is your head still bothering you?” Scott asks.

“Yeah,” Phil answers.  “I-I don’t really feel like going out.”

“You have a headache?” Dean questions.  “When did that start?”

“On the drive down here,” Scott answers for him.  “It was a rough ride.”

“So bumpy,” Phil groans.

Dean winces.  It had been a bumpy ride.  He can’t imagine having a headache for that drive.

“Think I just need to lay still, in the dark, for a while,” Phil mumbles.  “You guys go on ahead.”

Jason bites down on his lip.  “It’s that bad, huh?  Maybe eating something will help…”

“I’m not hungry,” Phil says.

“Okay, bud,” Dean says gently.  “You stay here.  We’ll bring you something back, okay?  Maybe you’ll be hungry later.  You’re gonna need fuel for tomorrow.”

“Okay.  Thanks, guys.”

At that moment, the guys from the conjoining room pound on the door.  Dean sees Phil wince at the noise.

Jason swings the door open.

“Are you guys ready or what?” Rhett asks.

“We’re ready,” Jason tells him.  “Olive Garden?”

“Yeah, sure, let’s do it.”

They leave Phil to his peace.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Toward the end of their meal, Dean’s phone starts vibrating.

His heart skips when he sees that it is Phil.  He tells the guys to quiet down, and then answers. “Hello?”

“D-Dean?” He’s crying.  Dean can hear it in his voice.

“Phil?  You okay?”

“N-No… M-My head hurts.” He chokes on a sob.  “I-I can’t stand this…”  He’s panting, groaning in pain.  It doesn’t even sound like Phil. “I need help."

“Okay, man,” he says calmly, despite feeling the opposite of calm. “I’m going to come back, alright?  Can you try to take some deep breaths for me?”

“Dean?  What’s going on?” Scott asks, worriedly.  He stands up, too. “That’s Phil?”

“Yeah,” Dean confirms, wincing as Phil continues to groan over the line.  “His head is killing him.  He needs help.  I’m gonna go…”

“I’ll come, too,” Scott says without hesitation.  “Sounds like a migraine.”

“I’ll call Coach, let him know what’s going on,” Jason says.

“Someone call Erin, too,” Scott instructs.

“I will,” Porter says.

“We’ll box up your food,” Ben tells them.  “And we’ll still bring Lammers something back, just in case he wants it.”

Dean nods.  “Thanks, guys.  Let’s go, Keene.”

The two of them practically sprint through the Olive Garden and back out into the plaza.

“Phil, you still there?” Dean asks into the phone.

“Nnh…” Phil mumbles.

“Hang in there, bud.  We’re on our way.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean hangs up the call as he uses the key to their hotel room, Scott following quietly behind.  He keeps the lights off as they approach.  They can see the silhouette of Phil, buried under covers in the bed.

“Philly?” he says softly.  “Scott and I are here, bud.  What can we do?”

Phil is making a low keening sound, that suddenly stops with a hitched breath.  “Guh…” he moans, and then coughs.  Dean hears a rush of liquid escape him, the sound muffled by all the covers.

“Shit, Keene, he’s throwing up,” he hisses urgently as he realizes. He rushes to Phil’s bedside to pull back the covers.  Scott hurries into the bathroom to retrieve the trash bin.

The aroma of bile hits Dean’s nostrils as he pulls the covers back, and he has to stifle some gags of his own.  Phil jolts at the change of temperature once he’s exposed, and his stomach heaves again, soiling the sheets and pillows with sick.  Phil had barely been able to lift his head, so the vomit is soaking into his clothes where he’s laying.

“Here, Dean, here!” Scott says frantically, passing the bin over to Dean.

Dean takes it and holds his breath as he tugs Phil’s shoulders over to the edge of the bed with one arm while the other situates the bin under his mouth.  Dean tries to ignore the fact that his hand touched something wet.

Phil heaves again, this time filling the bin rather than adding to the mess in his bed.

Dean feels like crying.  The moans that are escaping from Phil’s lips as he pants over the bin are absolutely dreadful.  Dean wants to offer reassuring words, but doesn’t want to exacerbate Phil’s pain by making noise.  So he just sits on the edge of the bed, wetness seeping into his sweatpants, and holds onto Phil’s shoulders while he chokes up bile.

“I’m gonna start him a bath,” Scott says softly, but all business.  “We’re gonna have to get him cleaned up.”

Dean swallows hard, and nods, hoping Scott can see him in the dim light from the bathroom.

When Phil’s body finally stops trying to eject everything from his insides, he lets his head drop, no longer able to keep it upright.  He grunts in pain.  “D-Dean…” he whines.

“I know, buddy,” Dean whispers.  “I’m here.”

The smell is overpowering, and he can’t imagine it’s helping matters for Phil, so Dean makes the executive decision to set the bin on the floor and pull Phil into his lap, practically cradling the kid, so that he can scoot them down to the foot of the bed, distancing them from the vomit.  Phil whimpers in pain at the change in equilibrium and it absolutely shatters Dean’s heart into a million pieces.

“Shh,” he says gently.  “I know, I know.  I’m sorry.  I gotcha, you’re okay.”  He tucks Phil’s head into the crevice of his neck, ready to move him to the bathtub at Scott’s cue.

Phil is positively trembling with pain, but seems to be calming down considerably.

It’s during all this that Coach and Erin knock quietly on the hotel room door.  Scott lets them in as the bathtub fills.

Dean feels himself relax at just the sight - or rather, silhouette - of Erin.  He’s glad that someone qualified is here to take the reins.

Scott talks in hushed tones to fill them in and then Erin approaches the bed.  “Can you lift him?” she asks Dean softly.  “The tub is ready.”

Dean nods.  He has enough adrenaline running through his veins that he thinks he could lift someone three times as heavy as Phil.

“Okay, c’mon,” she instructs, and grabs a clean pillow from the adjacent bed.

Coach flips off the bathroom light, but lets a little light in from the door to the hallway, allowing Dean to clearly see the path to the tub.  He stands with shaky legs, holding Phil bridal-style, and walks hm into the bathroom.  Coach helps him lower Phil into the tub, clothes on and all. They lean him against the back of the tub, and Erin wiggles the pillow behind his head.

Phil groans as he’s submerged in the warm water, but then the keening noises stop and he visibly relaxes.

“Okay, Phil, keep trying to relax for us, okay?” Erin says quietly.  “Start at your toes, and move all the way up your body.  Scott, will you check his pulse?”

Dean backs away, letting them work.  Coach tugs him by the arm out into the main room.  “Help me strip the bed,” he says.

They get to work, balling up the sheets and soiled pillows.  Dean can feel himself trembling as they go.

“Hey,” Coach says quietly.  “Breathe, Sutton. He’s going to be fine.”

Dean nods and sniffs.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Coach makes Dean step out into the hall once the bed is stripped; Phil is in good hands with Erin and Scott.  “Listen, the rest of you boys are going to take mine and Coach Olsen’s room,” he tells him.  “We’ll come to yours and stay the night with Lammers.”

Dean nods.  “Okay, sir.”

As he agrees to this, the rest of the guys emerge from the elevator, returning from Olive Garden.

“How’s he doing?” Danny asks as they approach.

“Erin and Scott are getting him sorted out,” Coach tells them all.  “I’m gonna need you boys to help switch some rooms.  You up for the task?”

“Yessir,” they respond.

“Okay,” Coach says.  “Sutton, you’re off-duty.  Your job is to go take a shower and change out of those clothes.”

Dean looks down at his vomit-soaked sweatpants.  He gulps.  “Yeah, okay.”

“Here, you can use our bathroom,” Ben says, handing him the key.  “We’ll bring your luggage over.”

“Thanks,” Dean says.

“And we’ll put your boxed up food in the fridge,” Jason says.

Dean nods and retires into the adjacent hotel room, his team captain heart bursting at how readily each one of the swimmers is pitching in to take care of one another.

He sheds his soiled clothing and showers quickly.

One of the guys had tucked his duffle inside the bathroom door.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When he emerges, the guys from the adjacent room have settled into their respective beds and are watching Family Guy as they wind down for the night.

“He’s doing better,” Ben tells Dean.  “He’s coherent now.”

Dean sighs with relief.  “Thank God.”

“Hotel staff brought up a new mattress pad, so the bed he hurled in is all good now,” Rhett feels it’s important to say.

Dean chuckles.  “Well that’s a relief.”

“He was asking for you,” Danny tells him, nodding at the door.  “You should go see him.”

Dean nods.  “Thanks for helping out, guys.  Get a good night sleep, okay?”

“Aye, Capt’n.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean knocks gently on the hotel door and Coach lets him in.

Phil is still relaxing in the tub; they’d removed his clothing, sans boxers.  His eyes are closed; his breathing has evened out.

“He got some Aleve down,” Scott tells him.  “He’s doing a lot better now.”

“Okay, that’s good,” Dean says, over the lump in his throat.  Phil Lammers has a soft spot in his heart, and seeing him so sickly leaves him breathless.  In the dim light, he can see that the crevices of pain have smoothed out around his eyes and forehead, and that helps Dean relax considerably.

“We should probably get him back to bed,” Erin says softly.  She looks at Dean.  “You want to help?”

Dean nods.

Together, they rouse him, and help him out of the tub.  They get him dried off and changed into some sweats.  He’s able to walk back to bed under his own steam.

“Thanks, Dean,” he croaks, as Dean helps him under the covers.  “T-Thanks everyone.  Sorry ‘bout all this.  I-I’m sorry I have to sit out—”

Dean’s heart clenches.  Of course Phil would be thinking about the meet and how not competing is going to affect the team.

Dean squeezes his hand.  “Don’t apologize, Phil.  We’re just happy you’re feeling a little better.”

“That’s right, kid,” Coach echoes.  “All you need to do right now is rest, okay? No worrying about the meet.  That’s an order.  We’ve got it covered.”

Phil bites down on his lip.  “Yessir.”

Dean runs a hand through Phil’s hair.  “Get some sleep.”

Fin.

Chapter 31: get Adam

Notes:

Characters: Rhett Molloy, Jenny Andrews, Adam Groves, Phil Lammers, Scott Keene

Summary: Things were looking up... until they weren't.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting, mentions of diarrhea

Part 1

“I knew you’d like it!” Jenny says happily.

Rhett smiles at her.  “Yeah, it’s really good,” he says.  “I just hope you’re not judging me for giving up on the chopsticks.”

Jenny had invited Rhett out to lunch and then to their university’s basketball game. This invitation came once he’d been cleared from bedrest following his surgery.  They’re at a well-known sushi joint just off of campus.  It happens to be Rhett’s first-ever sushi experience.

Jenny had come over for a couple more movie nights, but this was their first actual date. As in, outside of Rhett’s dorm room.

It’s… intimidating.

Rhett doesn’t usually pursue anything further than a one night stand.

It’s easier that way.

But he hasn’t stopped thinking about Jenny since the day he met her.

And that terrifies him.

In the best way possible.

“Not at all,” Jenny tells him.  “I’m just glad you don’t hate it.  You think you’ll order another roll?”

“Oh, definitely. Maybe two,” Rhett says, then sticks his fork into his California roll. He swirls it around in the soy sauce mixed with wasabi, then takes another bite.  “Might even go for something raw, just to have the full experience.”

“Dang, we’ve got a daredevil out here,” Jenny teases him.

Right now, Rhett is on cloud nine.  He’s finally starting to feel like himself again for the first time since his bowel surgery.  He’s started up physical therapy to get him strong enough to get back in the pool.  His roommate, Adam, has become more of a friend than the bane of his existence.  And he’s dating Jenny.

So yeah, Rhett has it pretty good right now.

He just wants to soak it in.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Of course, it doesn’t last.

Because why would it? Rhett thinks bitterly.

As the game had gotten underway, he was playing the all-too-familiar, back-and-forth game of “does my stomach actually hurt or is it all in my head?”

The sushi he’d eaten feels like lead in his stomach.  His innards are becoming undeniably uneasy.

His phone buzzes and he looks down.  It’s a text from Adam: Hey, look straight across the court.

Rhett swallows hard and looks up to see Adam, Phil, Scott, and Dean waving their arms furiously in his direction. They’re seated opposite he and Jenny, behind the opposing team’s bench.

“Who are they?” Jenny wonders, resting her head against his shoulder.

“Adam and some other guys from the team,” Rhett tells her as he lifts his free arm up to wave back, rolling his eyes at their antics.  Enough to appease them so that they’ll knock it off.

A few moments later, Rhett gets another text from Adam: We decided to come last minute! We’re gonna grab dinner after the game if you and Jenny want to join.

Rhett quickly tucks his phone back in his pocket without answering, hoping that Jenny hadn’t read the text over his shoulder.

He’s not sure he’ll make it through this game, let alone dinner afterward.

~*~*~*~*~*~

By the end of halftime, it’s evident that what Rhett is feeling isn’t all in his head.  He feels straight-up rotten.  He swallows the nausea down as best he can as the teams come back out to the court. Then he reaches up to wipe some sweat that has collected on his brow.

Jenny sees him.  “Are you sweating?” she asks.  “I think it’s freezing in here!”

“Yeah, I’m kind of warm…” Rhett mumbles an answer, then puts a hand on his stomach when it whines and gurgles.

Jenny frowns at that.  “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” he lies, for no good reason other than he doesn’t want his sour stomach to ruin their date.  “I’m fine.”

“Really?” Jenny says doubtfully, studying his face.  “Because you look really pale…”

Rhett gulps.  “I do?”

“Yeah, and you’re holding your stomach…” Jenny observes.  She puts a hand on his shoulder. She knows.  “Oh, babe…”

Busted.  No use trying to hide it now.  “Damn, you’re intuitive,” Rhett mumbles, ducking his head.

“So you do have an upset stomach?” Jenny seeks verification with raised eyebrows, craning her neck to meet his eyes.

Rhett blushes.  He always gets embarrassed talking about GI issues.  “Yeah.  M’sorry.”  He closes his eyes against a wave of dizziness that washes over him.

“Don’t be sorry,” Jenny tells him genuinely.  "Now I know why you got so quiet.  Do you want to leave?”

Rhett lifts one shoulder up in a shrug.  “Um… actually, I feel like if I move I’m going to puke everywhere,” he tells her honestly, then breathes deeply through his nose to try to stave off the ever-pressing nausea.

“You mean that?” Jenny asks, hoping he’s speaking in hyperbole.  “It’s that bad?”

Rhett hums in confirmation.  His ears are ringing.  “M’sorry,” he says again.

“Miss?  Here, take this…” says a woman’s voice, who Rhett vaguely realizes belongs to the woman of the middle-aged couple sitting beside them.  They must’ve overheard the conversation.

“Are you sure?” Jenny says to her.  “Thank you so much.”  She puts a hand on Rhett’s knee.  “Babe, here, hold onto this empty popcorn bucket,” she instructs. “If you need to be sick, you’re covered.  But I think we should try to get you to the bathroom if we can, don’t you?”

“‘Mhmm,” Rhett agrees.  He forces his eyes back open as the lingering smell of buttery popcorn hits his nostrils.  He swallows hard and hugs the bucket tightly, while Jenny helps him stand.

If Rhett wasn’t feeling so dreadful, he’d take the time to appreciate that Jenny has been calling him “babe.”

“Okay, c’mon,” she says, nudging him toward the aisle.  There are only three seats that they have to shuffle past.  “Excuse us, thank you,” Jenny tells the fans who stood for them to get by more easily.

Rhett feels like he’s going to collapse as he starts the descent down the stairs.  He has double-vision now, and his insides are twisting painfully.  He’s not going to make it to a bathroom.

Thankfully, he does make it down the stairs, and into the concourse.  His legs feel so weak that he instinctively beelines for the nearest wall so he can lean his weight against to slide to the ground.  He feels Jenny’s hand on his shoulder, kneeling down with him.

He starts to heave as his legs fold.

“Okay, okay,” Jenny says gently.  “Here.”

Rhett feels like putty as Jenny guides his shoulders and head over the bucket with one hand while she holds it in place with the other. Rhett is promptly ill, his guts spilling into the bucket in multiple gushes.

Vaguely, he’s aware of Jenny talking to him as she pats his back.  There’s more chatter around him, and he wonders if he’s collected an audience.  He desperately tries to get his body under control, but the smell of undigested sushi isn’t helping matters.

His bowels start to twist, too, and he knows he really needs a bathroom now, lest he soil himself.  Still hugging the bucket, he starts to stand back up.  His legs are wobbling beneath him.

“What’re you doing?” Jenny asks frantically.

“Bathroom,” Rhett mutters out.  “I-I need—”

He vomits again, then spits.  He groans.

“I really n-need a toilet.”

“Oh gosh, okay, it’s just ahead,” Jenny tells him, and helps pull him to standing.  “I-I can’t come in with you…”

Thank God for that, Rhett thinks. He’s humiliated enough as it is with what Jenny has witnessed.

He lets her usher him to the doorway of the men’s restroom, thankful for a brief reprieve from vomiting.  It doesn’t change the fact that he feels like he might pass out.  Even he can recognize he shouldn’t be fending for himself right now.

“What can I do?” Jenny calls after him as Rhett beelines for the nearest stall.

“Get Adam.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Part 2

“Adam!”

Adam startles at his name being called.  He had been in a heated debate with Phil about who their team’s best player was, when someone started calling his name.

“Hey, Adam!”

He looks around, not entirely sure where it’s coming from.

Phil grabs his shoulder and points.  “Over there.  Is that Jenny?”

Adam frowns as his gaze follows where Phil is pointing to his left on the stairs.  “Yeah,” he confirms.  She’s waving him over frantically.  “That’s weird.  I’m gonna go see what she wants.

He shuffles past the fans in his row to get to the stairs.  “Jenny, hey,” he greets.  “What’s up?”

“Hey,” she greets quickly.  “I’m really sorry to bother you, but I need help with Rhett. He’s sick.”

Adam frowns.  “What do you mean?  Sick how?”

“To his stomach.  He threw up.  He asked me to come get you… Is that okay?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Adam assures her.  “Where is he?”

“He’s in the mens’ room.  The one closest to our seats.”

Adam nods.  “Okay, let’s go.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Rhett, you in here?” Adam calls, when he enters.

“Yeah…” Rhett’s voice carries through the door to the first stall.

“What happened, man?” Adam asks.  He leans up against the adjacent wall in front of the stall and crinkles his nose at the smell of sickness permeating the space. Thankfully, most of the other occupants in the restroom are sticking to the urinals, so Rhett has the illusion of some privacy.

“My body decided to completely humiliate me in front of Jenny,” Rhett groans in response.

Adam winces.  “Yeah, she told me you threw up…”

“I think it’s food poisoning.  I have the shits, too.”

“Yeah, the stench in here told me that much,” Adam tries to joke to bring light to the situation, even though it’s not funny at all.  “I’m sorry, man.”

When Rhett doesn’t say anything to that, Adam lets out a deep breath that he had been holding in.

“What can I do?  What do you need?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.”  Rhett sounds so tired.

“Can I come in?”

“No, ‘m comin’ out…” Rhett mumbles.

Adam hears the toilet flush and then the stall door creaks open, revealing his very sick roommate, holding a quasi-empty popcorn bucket to his chest.  Rhett’s hair is damp with sweat and his forehead is glistening under the florescent lighting.  His face is disturbingly pale, to the point that his skin is blending in with the off-white stalls he’s leaning heavily against.  He’s taking panting breaths as his body tries to recover from expelling his insides.

“Oh, gosh, Rhett,” Adam sighs sympathetically.

Rhett looks down, embarrassed.  “I know.”  He motions past Adam.  “I’m gonna… wash my hands.”

Just then, Adam’s phone starts vibrating in his pocket.  “Phil’s calling,” he tells Rhett as he steps aside to let him by, then follows him to the sinks.  “He’s probably wondering where I went…”

“Adam?” Phil says when Adam answers.

“Yeah, hey, man.”

“Where’d you go?”

“I’m with Rhett.  He got sick.  It’s not pretty.  I think he’s gonna need my help to get back to the dorms.  He and Jenny walked here…”

“Is it his stomach?” Phil wonders.  “He spewin’ again?”

“Yeah.” Adam sighs.  “He thinks it’s food poisoning, but he looks dead on his feet, dude. You guys drove here, right?  Do you think Dean’ll let us take his car and you guys can figure out another way back?”

“Yeah, ‘course he’ll let you.  I’ll bring you the keys.”

“‘Kay,” Adam says, absentmindedly, as he watches Rhett splash cold water on his face at the sinks.  “Thanks, man.”  Then, realizing Phil has no idea where to meet them, he says, “We’re in the restroom closest to the main entrance.”

“Got it,” Phil says.  “On my way."

When Adam hangs up, he’s taken off-guard when he’s nearly run over by Rhett on a mad dash back to the toilet.  He’d left the popcorn bucket on the counter and the sink running.

“Rhett—?”

Adam follows him back to first stall and his own stomach aches with empathy as he watches Rhett heave more contents into the toilet water.  His long hair falls in the crossfire, and Adam is quick to collect it back.  He stuffs Rhett’s hair into the back collar of his shirt.

“Oh, gosh—” Rhett breathes, then breaks off with another heave.  More bile pours out of him.

His arms are draped over the toilet seat with his head resting on the meat of his wrists. He’s trembling so hard that the toilet seat is rattling along with him.

Adam puts a hand on his shoulder and kneels down behind him.  “Hey, you’re okay.  Just try to breathe.  You’ve got to be almost empty.”

Rhett coughs, then spits.  “Y-You would… think…” he mumbles, then strains some more.  “Ugh.”

Adam pats his back lightly and swallows hard as the smell becomes overpowering.  “Are you sure this is food poisoning?  I mean, what if this is related to your screwy bowel?”

Rhett lifts his hand up to flush the toilet.  “I don’t know,” he sighs.

“Do you want me to take you to the ER?  Get you checked out?”

“I don’t know,” Rhett says again.  His elbow is propped up on the toilet seat and he’s holding his head in his hand, blinking dazedly down at the toilet water.  Adam has a feeling he’s too nauseous to have a coherent thought at the moment.

“I’m gonna call Erin,” Adam decides.  “See what she thinks.”

As he’s pulling his phone back out to do just that, Phil enters the restroom, along with Dean and Scott.  Adam should’ve known they’d want to help Rhett in any way they could, but he also doubts that Rhett wants an audience.

“Hey,” Phil says, when he sees Adam hovering outside of the stall.  “How’s he doing…?  We just saw Jenny.”

Adam holds up a hand to keep them from coming any closer, to try and spare Rhett some dignity.  “He’s still feeling really rough.  I was about to call Erin to see if we should—”

He’s interrupted when Rhett starts retching futilely again.

Adam’s winces, then collects himself.  “…If we should take him to ER,” he finishes.

“Let me call her,” Scott offers.

“Yeah, and I’ll go get the car,” Dean says.

Adam nods.  “Okay, thanks guys.  Phil, do you mind staying with Jenny? Maybe you can track down another empty popcorn bucket?”

Phil nods.  “Sure,” he says easily.  

“When Rhett is feeling up to it, you guys can start making moves to the car,” Dean says.  “I’ll be out front and can drive you guys wherever you decide, whether that’s to the ER or back to the dorms."

“You sure you don’t mind missing the end of the game?” Adam checks.

“Nah, I don’t mind,” Dean says, with a wave of his hand.

They had just come here on a whim, after all.

“Alright,” Adam nods.  “We’ll be out soon, I hope.”

The rest of the guys retreat out of the bathroom to do their respective delegated tasks, so Adam turns his attention back on Rhett.

“You hear all that, man?” he asks, crouching back down beside his sick teammate.

Rhett has pushed himself away from the toilet and is leaned up against the partition of the stall, head tilted back with his eyes closed.  His legs are pulled into his chest.  Adam can see beads of sweat on his brow.

“Yeah,” he breathes.  “I-I hate…” he lets out a shuddering breath.  I hate this.  “I’m not…” I’m not worth it.

Adam’s heart sinks.  Rhett is having trouble articulating it, but Adam knows what he’s trying to say.  Rhett doesn’t like being fussed over, or feeling like a burden.  It’s hard for him to accept help when he’s spent so much of his life being told that he isn’t worthy of it.

“They’re just dropping everything…” he mumbles.

“Yeah, for good reason, I’d say,” Adam says lightly.  “This is what we do for each other, man.  And you’re a part of that.” He hesitantly puts a hand on Rhett’s knee and squeezes gently.  “I know it’s going to take some getting used to.”

Rhett reopens his bleary eyes and bites down on his lip.  “Y-Yeah,” he whispers brokenly.

“And that’s okay,” Adam adds softly, meeting Rhett’s eyes.  “Okay?”

Rhett swallows hard.  “Okay,” he echoes.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Erin says that they don’t need to take Rhett to the ER yet and she lists off a multitude of reasons: Rhett’s symptoms had just started which means they can monitor for a little while longer. It doesn’t seem like he’s running a fever so an infection is unlikely. And the most important point is that she’s well aware of Rhett’s distaste of hospitals and doesn’t want to put him through emotional turmoil if she doesn’t have to.

All that being said, she wants the guys to keep a close eye on him, and if he is still throwing up into the night, then it would be time to pull the trigger on the ER.

So they head back to the dorms. Rhett is going to try to sleep it off, and the rest are going to hang out and play video games in Phil and Scott’s room.  They’ll take shifts checking on Rhett.

Adam expects Jenny to head back to her dorm once they get Rhett settled, but she doesn’t.  She stays and hangs out with the guys.  Gets to know them.

“She’s still here?” Rhett repeats with a croak, when Adam tells him, two hours later. Adam and Scott had taken the first shift to wake Rhett up for hydration’s sake.  “I thought I’d scared her away for sure."

“I don’t think she’s goin’ anywhere, man,” Adam says.

“She seems to really like you,” Scott agrees.  He watches as Rhett takes a timid sip of water.  “How’re you feeling?”

Rhett swallows.  “I’m okay, I think.  Just want to sleep s’more.”

Adam reaches up to feel Rhett’s forehead, checking his temperature.  “No fever,” he reports.  “You’re still cool.”

“I’m always ‘cool,’” Rhett says, his timing always on point, no matter the situation.  “I’m telling you, I think it was just bad sushi.  I’m already feeling a little better now.”

“That’s good,” Scott says.  “I’ll let Erin know.  Looks like we’ll be able to keep you out of the ER.”

“Good,” Rhett mumbles.  He meets both of their eyes.  “Thanks, Groves.  Keene.”

“Sure.”

“Tell the others, too?”

“We will.”

“Drink a little more and then you can go back to sleep, okay?” Scott instructs.  “Call us if you need anything.”

“‘Kay,” Rhett agrees.

Adam flips the light to their dorm room off as they retreat our the door.

“Feel better, man.”

Fin.

Chapter 32: no place like home

Notes:

Characters: Rhett Molloy, Dean Sutton, Jason Rhodes, Coach Jennings

Summary: There's not much to go home to.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting, mentions of past parental abuse

Part 1

It’s the Wednesday of Thanksgiving break, and campus is quiet.  Still.

The majority of students have left for home.

Dean loves it.

It feels like he has the whole place to himself.

Dean doesn’t really celebrate American Thanksgiving. Being from Canada, he’s used to having his Day of Thanks in October. He’s going to join Jason’s family for dinner on Thursday, but other than that, he’s just hanging out on campus for the next five days.

He plans to get ahead on his schoolwork.

Dean has just finished a solo cardio workout at the student rec center and is heading back to his apartment on his bike.  As he pedals past the CVS near campus, he notices someone sitting on the front steps to the store, leaning against the brick wall, hunched into himself. His hood is up - and Dean owns that hoodie, too - so this is someone he is pretty sure he recognizes.

He frowns and slows his bike to a stop.  He dismounts onto the sidewalk, pulling his bike up the curb in tow.

“Molloy?” he calls out.

As he gets closer, he’s certain that it’s Rhett sitting on the steps.  He hadn’t stirred at all when Dean called his name.  His eyes are closed and he’s breathing heavy.

He’s asleep, Dean realizes.

Suddenly, he’s concerned.  It’s cold out and there’s no telling how long Rhett has been out here.  He has a sinking feeling that something is wrong.

He parks his bike by the rack beside some trashcans at the base of the steps, then approaches Rhett carefully.

He bends over him to lightly shake his shoulder.  “Rhett, hey, wake up.”

Rhett jolts awake immediately.  “W-What?” he croaks, arms flying up in front of his face in a defensive gesture.

Dean is quick to placate.  “Hey, it’s just me.  It’s Dean.”

Rhett takes in a few shaky breaths as awareness comes to him in stages.  “Sutton?” he says weakly, blinking bleary eyes up at him.  “What…?”  He turns his head to take in his surroundings.

“You’re outside the CVS,” Dean explains as calmly as he can manage, because Rhett really doesn’t look well.  He’s pale and has dark circles under his eyes.  “I didn’t mean to scare you.  …Are you okay?”

Rhett straightens up a bit, and runs his hands through his sleek, long hair, effectively pulling off his hood.  “Um… I-I don’t know…” he answers shakily.

Dean’s frown deepens at that answer.  He puts a stabilizing hand on Rhett’s shoulder.  “You really don’t look too hot,” he tells him.  “Are you sick? Hungover?  What’s going on?”

Rhett leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees and drops his head into his hands.  “Sick,” he answers.  “Came here to get some meds.  G-Got dizzy.  Had to s-sit.”

Dean’s heart sinks at that admission and, instinctively, his hand reaches to feel Rhett’s forehead.  He’s startled by the intensity of heat he feels there, despite Rhett sitting in the cold for heaven knows how long.  “I think you’re running a heck of a fever, man,” he tells him.  “Let me get you what you need, alright?”

“No…  I can get it,” Rhett protests, and starts to stand up.

But Dean gently pushes him back down.

“I just found you nearly passed out, Molloy.  You’re not going anywhere,” Dean tells him firmly.  “What do you need?”

Rhett swallows hard and seems to understand that Dean is taking charge, here.  “Uh, I-I was going to get some Tylenol.  A-And, um…” he looks down at his hands, “…some Pepto.”

Dean winces at that.  “Stomach buggin’ you?”

Even sick, Rhett manages to maintain a glimmer of his sarcastic, brash nature. “Gee, you’d make a good detective, Sutton,” he grumbles.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean mutters. “Have you thrown up?”

“Mm,” Rhett breathes an affirmative.  “Twice.”

Dean sighs with sympathy.  “Okay,” he says softly. He pats Rhett on the shoulder on his way inside the store.  “I’ll be right back.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

When Dean exits the store, he finds that Rhett has moved over to the patch of the grass on the side of the building.  He’s kneeling, head bowed.

“Molloy, you about to hurl?” he asks reluctantly.

“Yeah,” Rhett chokes out, and does.

Dean turns his head away out of instinct, but hears a rush of liquid connecting with the grass. He drops the bags from the store on the sidewalk, then takes a deep breath in through his nose before going to Rhett’s aid.

Rhett had stopped spewing as quickly as he started; now he’s just spitting strings of bile and saliva on the ground.

He’s shaking badly and panting heavily.

Dean places a gentle hand on his back.  “You finished?”

Rhett nods and falls back to sit on his buttocks and brings his hands up to his head.  It’s obvious that he’s disoriented.  Dizzy.  “You get the meds?” he grunts out.

“Yeah,” Dean says.  He bites down on his lip.  “Listen, Molloy, you’re… you seem really sick.  I don’t think you should be alone.  Why don’t you come to my place?”

Rhett scoffs at that, as if he doesn’t believe Dean is being genuine.  “Yeah, right.”

Dean’s brow furrows.  “I’m serious.”

Now Rhett gets almost defensive.  “What, you don’t think I can handle some measly virus on my own?”

“That’s not at all what I’m saying,” Dean negates quietly.  “I’m saying you shouldn’t have to.”

When Rhett doesn’t say anything to that, he adds, “And I’m not so sure this is just some ‘measly’ virus.”

“I’ll be fine,” Rhett grunts.

“Yeah, you will be.  Because I’m gonna look after you,” Dean tells him firmly.  “I’m pulling rank.”

Rhett rolls his eyes, seeming to realize he doesn’t have the strength to win this battle.  “Fine.  Whatever,” he sighs in mock annoyance, but Dean sees some tension release from his shoulders and knows he’s actually relieved. Then, “Help me off this cold ground?”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“I didn’t know you were gonna be here over break,” Dean tells Rhett on their slow walk to his apartment.  He had locked his bike and left it on the rack outside the store to be dealt with later.

“Not much to go home to,” Rhett grumbles in answer.

Those words hit Dean like a punch in the gut.  He’d heard through Phil that Rhett had lost his mom and his sister to a car wreck when he was really young.  He has a feeling that’s what Rhett is alluding to.

Dean swallows hard, not really sure what to say to that. He clears his throat.  “You’re from Olathe, right? That’s in Kansas?”

“Very good, Canada Boy,” Rhett says.

“Bit of a hike from here?” Dean assumes.

“Yeah, something like that.”

"Everything I know about Kansas is from The Wizard of Oz," Dean says.  Then quotes in a falsetto voice, "'Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore.'"

Rhett snorts a little.  "Thank God for that," he says dully.

Dean doesn’t know what to do with that comment either, so they fall back in silence for the remainder of the walk.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“You can take my room,” Dean tells Rhett once they climb the stairs to his second-floor apartment.  “It’s closest to the bathroom.”

Rhett pales at that and puts a hand on his midsection. “I don’t need to take your bed, Sutton.”

Dean waves his hand.  “It’s no big thing.  I’ll just crash in Jason’s room.  He won’t mind.”  He looks Rhett up and down; his legs are visibly trembling beneath his weight.  “C’mon, let’s get you lying down before you fall over.”

He nudges Rhett in the direction of his bedroom.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean checks Rhett’s temperature before letting him drop off to sleep.  It’s high, just as Dean suspected: 102.4°F.

Rhett refuses to try any of the meds Dean had gotten him. Same goes for the assortment of electrolyte drinks Dean had purchased on a whim. He insists they won’t stay down, and based on the pallor of his face, Dean doesn’t doubt him. So he doesn’t push.

“I just want to crash,” Rhett tells him.

Dean can hear the desperation in his voice and gives in.  “Okay,” he allows.  “But I’m gonna wake you up in a couple of hours to hydrate.”

Rhett gives him a half-hearted thumbs up.

Dean points the bathroom out to him across the hall, then gets a trash can set up by the head of the bed in case Rhett can’t make it there.

He adjusts the covers over Rhett’s sickly form, then pats his knee.  “Get some rest, man.”

As he turns out the light he suspects Rhett has already fallen asleep.

---

Part 2

Dean had heard Adam complain about Rhett’s snoring and had always thought he had to be exaggerating a little.

Not the case.

Dean might as well have invited a jack hammer into his apartment.

He’s glad Rhett is getting the deep sleep he suspects he so desperately needs.  That said, it’s not exactly easy for him to focus on his biology textbook.  He ends up giving up on studying and flips the TV on instead.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean checks on Rhett periodically over the next two hours.

He finds him in a different position in the bed each time he pokes his head in, covers tangled all around him, but always still snoring.

At the two hour mark, Dean decides it’s time to wake the beast.

“Rhett,” he says gently, and knocks on the doorframe of his bedroom.  He doesn’t want to startle him like he did outside the CVS earlier.  But when Rhett doesn’t stir, even when he’s flipped on the overhead light,  he knows he’s going to have to shake his shoulder.

He approaches the bed carefully and does just that.

“Rhett, hey, wake up for me,” he says.

And once again, Rhett startles awake, fresh panic in his eyes as he looks around wildly.

Dean steps away from the bed to appear disarming.  “It’s just me, man.  Dean.”

Rhett grunts his understanding.

“You remember where you are?” Dean checks.

“Mm.  You k-kidnapped me,” Rhett mumbles groggily.

Dean smiles at that.  “That’s one way to put it.”  He approaches the bed again to help Rhett detangle himself from the covers.  He sweating like crazy, and his hair is matted and wet.  First order of business is to check his temperature again, but based on Rhett’s chattering teeth alone, Dean doesn’t anticipate much improvement, if any.  “Sit up for a little,” he tells Rhett, and stuffs a pillow behind his back.  “We need to get another gauge on that fever.”

“‘Kay,” Rhett agrees.  He’s still so out of it.

So Dean sticks the thermometer under his tongue, and while they’re waiting to get a reading, heads to the kitchen to get Rhett some liquids.

“Has it beeped yet?” he asks when he returns to the bedroom, regarding the thermometer, bottles tucked under his arm.

Rhett shakes his head, but it beeps as he does.

“Look at that timing,” Dean quips and plucks it out of Rhett’s mouth.  “Let’s see what we’re working with.”

Dean gasps when he sees the reading.  “103.1°F,” he reports.  “Holy shit, Molloy. They say a fever that high needs to be checked out, right?”  He pulls up a quick Google search on his phone to confirm; he’s used to reading thermometers in Celsius, not Fahrenheit.  “Uh, yup, this is telling me to take you to the ER.”

“Like hell,” Rhett retorts with a croak.  “I don’t do hospitals.”

“You don’t ‘do’ hospitals?” Dean repeats, eyebrows raised.

“No.  I hate ‘em.”

“I don’t think anybody likes hospitals,” Dean tells him.  “But—”

“But nothing,” Rhett says, voice intimidating even still.  “I’m not going to a damn hospital.”

Dean knows that with a fever that high, Rhett could lose consciousness pretty easily.  And he’d like to see Rhett try to stop him from getting him to the ER if that were to happen.  He doesn’t say any of that, though.  He just sighs and says, “Well, we need to try and bring your fever down here, then.  I’m gonna go start you a tepid bath.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

When Dean returns to his bedroom, he finds an alarming sight.  Rhett is sitting up on the edge of the bed with his feet on the floor, bent at the waist.  He’s thrown up again, and the trash bin is tipped over on its side at his feet.

“Rhett…?”

“I d-dropped the bin…” he chokes out, clearly still trying to stifle gags.  “‘m sorry. I’ll… I’ll clean it—” 

Another wave of bile interrupts him and collects in his lap.

Dean stands frozen for a few beats and tries to tell himself to remain calm.  Vomit repulses him; no more than the average person, but what’s going on right now is enough to make his own stomach turn. And the fact that Rhett is spewing in his bedroom (and missing the proper receptacle)… yeah, Dean can’t exactly say he’s happy about that.

“F-Fuck,” Rhett breathes as he pants over his mess.  “P-Please.. d-don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad, man,” Dean placates, because he hates that Rhett is apologizing for something he couldn’t help.  Dean isn’t mad at him.  Worried? Increasingly so. Grossed out? Definitely.  But not mad.  “Are you finished?”

“Mm.” Rhett nods.  “L-Let me just—”  He starts to stand up, eyes focused on the tipped over trashcan, seemingly intent on cleaning up his mess.

“Molloy, hey, I’m not worried about that,” Dean stops him.  “Let’s just get you to the tub, yeah?”

The room can be dealt with later.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Before today, Dean hadn’t known Rhett too well.  They train on opposite sides` of the pool, with Rhett being a distance freestyler and Dean being a butterflyer/IMer.  Most of the things Dean knows about him has come from Phil and his freshman buddies.

But now Dean is intimately familiar with Rhett as he shivers in his bathtub, stripped down to only his boxers.  He's resting his head against the tiled wall, eyes closed. Dean is sitting on the lid of the toilet seat, supervising.

“Bet you regret b-bringing me here,” Rhett breathes through chattering teeth after a moment of awkward silence.

Quite the opposite, actually.  “Not at all,” Dean tells him genuinely.  “I don’t even want to think about what would’ve happened if I hadn’t found you. You need looking after.”

“Would’ve been fine,” Rhett mumbles.

“Oh yeah, you’re the picture of health,” Dean says sarcastically.

Rhett opens a bleary eye.  “‘m not used t-to this.”

Dean tilts his head at him.  “Not used to what?”

Rhett lets out a shuddering breath.  “This. Being ‘l-looked after.’”  He swallows hard.  “M’pop woulda laid into me for puk’ng all over the floor.”

Dean’s stomach drops at that admission.  “What do you mean?”

Rhett snorts softly.  “Pr’b’ly woulda rubbed my nose innit.”

Dean almost can’t breathe.  “…What?”

“What?” Rhett repeats and opens both of his eyes to blink up at Dean, confused.  A violent shiver runs through him.  “I-I’m cold.  C-Can I g-get out?”

It occurs to Dean then that Rhett is probably delirious, and likely doesn’t remember what he just said.  But there’s truth to it.  Dean feels it in his gut, and his heart is breaking.

“Not just yet, man,” Dean tells him over the lump in his throat.  “You need to stay in a few more minutes.”

Rhett’s bottom lip wobbles and he nods jerkily.  “‘K-Kay,” he stutters out.

Dean feels like crying as he watches Rhett tremble in the tub. “Rhett, hold on to my hand,” he offers, extending his arm to the sick kid in front of him.  “I got you.”

---

Part 3

Rhett refuses Dean’s offer to help him get dressed after the bath, so Dean heads to his bedroom with the mop to clean up Rhett’s mishap from earlier.

He’s never been more thankful for hardwood flooring. Easy cleanup.

“I would’ve cleaned that up…” Rhett says from the doorway, dressed in a pair of Dean’s sweats, as Dean wrings the mop out in the bucket.

Dean shrugs it off.  “It’s no big thing, Molloy,” he says.  “You doin’ alright?”

Rhett clears his throat and nods, his eyes downcast at his feet.

“You want to go back to sleep?” Dean guesses as he rests the rod of the mop against an open spot on the wall.

“More than anything,” Rhett replies. 

“Okay, that can be arranged,” Dean promises, nudging him in the direction of the bed.  “But I want to check your temp before I let you crash. Is that cool?”

“Nothing about any of this is ‘cool,’” Rhett mutters.  “You just watched me take a bath.”

“Hey, at least I let you get dressed by yourself,” Dean defends.  He grabs the thermometer off of the nightstand and hands it to Rhett.  “You know what to do.”

Rhett relaxes into the pillows, then sticks the thermometer under his tongue.

While they’re waiting on a reading, Dean heads to the kitchen to grab the Tylenol and to wet a washcloth with some cool water.

“What’s it say?” he asks Rhett when he returns.  Rhett is blinking down at the device.

“102.6°F,” Rhett answers, then shivers.

Dean tsks.  “The bath didn’t help as much as I hoped,” he laments.  “Here, put this on your forehead.”  He tosses Rhett the cool cloth.  “And see if you can manage a couple Tylenol.” He tosses him the bottle.  “Your water’s on the nightstand.  I’m gonna go grab some ice packs.”

Rhett snorts softly after him in disbelief.  “You’re an actual fucking saint, Sutton.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“I changed my mind.  You’re the fucking devil,” Rhett grits out through clenched teeth.  Dean has ice packs tucked in his armpits and under his knees.

“It’s just for a little while,” Dean promises, from the foot of the bed.  “Five more minutes.”  Going for comfort, he squeezes Rhett’s shin gently.  “That Tylenol staying down?”

Rhett swallows hard.  “For now.”

“Okay.  Good.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

The ice packs bring Rhett’s temperature down a few more tenths of a degree.  It’s enough for Dean to relax a little bit.  And the fact that Rhett kept the Tylenol and some water down is a big win.  Dean gives him the green light to fall back asleep.

When Dean takes a seat at the dining room table to reattempt some studying, he sees he has a text from Jason.

Dinner’s at 4:00 tomorrow! Feel free to come whenever.

Dean’s heart sinks.  He’d been so focused on Rhett that Thanksgiving dinner with the Rhodeses had completely slipped his mind.

He gives Jason a ring.

“Deano!” Jason greets him happily.

“Hey, man.” He hears traffic and chatter in the background.  “You out somewhere?  I didn’t mean to interrupt anything…”

“All good, bro.  We’re just out on a family grocery shopping excursion that I’m happy to avoid by talking to you.  Any requests for tomorrow?”

“Uh, actually, that’s why I’m calling…” Dean says.  “I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it.”

Dean can almost see Jason’s brow furrowing.  ”Oh,” he says, disappointed. ”How come?”

“Because I found Rhett Molloy practically at Death’s Door this morning.”

“What do you mean?”

So Dean breaks it down for him, from the moment he found Rhett outside the CVS until now.

“He’s really in a bad way,” Dean tells Jason.  “It’s pretty off-putting seeing him so weak."

“I bet,” Jason says.  “Molloy’s such a beast at… literally everything.  It’s gotta be weird seeing him down for the count.”

“Yeah.”  Dean pinches the bridge of his nose.  “And he’s said some stuff that just…” Dean swallows hard, trailing off.

“That what?” Jason asks, concerned.

Dean closes his eyes.  “I don’t know, man.  I shouldn’t have said that.  It’s Molloy’s business.”  He lets out a deep breath.  “I just think he’s been through hell.”

Jason’s quiet on the other end for a while.  “I didn’t know he wasn’t going home for break,” he says finally.  “I would’ve invited him over for dinner, too.”

Dean almost smiles at that.  “Kind of a moot point now, though, don’t you think?”

Jason huffs a humorless laugh.  “Yeah, I guess so.” He clears his throat.  “I’m sorry you’re going to be spending your Thanksgiving looking after a sick Molloy.”

“Hey, I’m Canadian.  It’s just a regular old Thursday for me.”

“I know, but still,” Jason says.  “I’ll bring you some leftovers.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“I-Is he h-here?”

Dean looks up from his textbook.  Rhett is standing in the doorframe that leads into the dining area from the hallway.  He’s visibly trembling.

Dean doesn’t understand.  “What?” he asks, standing up.  “Is who here?  Are you okay?”

Rhett blinks at him, eyes fever-bright.

“M-My dad…” Rhett breathes for an answer.  “I don’t want h-him here.”  His eyes dart around the room worriedly.

Dean swallows over the ever-present lump in his throat, brow crinkling with concern. Rhett had been asleep for a good two hours, and Dean had just started to consider waking him up for hydration’s sake.

“Rhett, your dad isn’t here,” he says as gently as he can manage.  “Okay?  I promise.”

Rhett curls his arms around his stomach.  He looks so small.  Young.  “A-Are you sure?  I t-thought I h-heard him…”

The confusion on Rhett’s face makes Dean’s stomach drop.

“I’m sure,” Dean says, tenuously calm, as he slowly approaches his teammate.  He asks, “Do you know who I am?” because Rhett is practically staring through him.

Rhett’s Adam’s apple pulsates.  “Y-You’re… Dean,” he answers shakily, eyes wide, but Dean sees his shoulders relax a fraction as awareness returns to him in stages.

“That’s right,” Dean tells him.  “I found you outside the CVS and brought you to my apartment because you’re really sick.  Do you remember all that?”

Rhett nods jerkily.  “Y-Yeah.”  He backs up so that he’s leaning against the hallway wall.  He closes his eyes.  “Sorry, I-I don’t know what…” he trails off and curses under his breath.

“Hey, it’s okay.   You’re running a heck of a fever.  It can make your mind play tricks on you.”

“Yeah…” Rhett breathes.  He reopens his bleary eyes to meet Dean’s.

Dean reaches to give Molloy’s elbow a comforting squeeze.  “Let me help you back to bed, okay?”

---

Part 4

Rhett sleeps like the dead for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening.

Dean peeks in on him periodically, but decides to just let him sleep.  It’s not until Dean is ready to head to bed himself that he wakes Rhett to check his temperature and to get him to drink some water.

“Hey, man. Sorry to wake you.  I just need to check your temp,” Dean says gently, when he nudges Rhett awake.  “And then I need you to drink some water, okay?”

“Mm,” Rhett agrees and opens his mouth just far enough so that Dean can slide the thermometer under his tongue.

They wait in silence in the dim light for a reading. Rhett doesn’t stir.  He just lays there, eyes closed, and allows Dean to hold onto his hand.

The thermometer beeps.

102.1°F.

Still sick a dog, but moving away from dangerous.

High enough to warrant Tylenol, just the same.

“Can you sit up a little for me, man?” Dean asks.

Rhett opens his eyes into slits.  “Wanna sleep,” he croaks.

“After some water and Tylenol,” Dean tells him.  “C’mon.”

He stuffs a pillow behind Rhett’s back to help him sit up.

“I feel like shit, Sutton,” Rhett mumbles, once he’s upright.

“This might help,” Dean says gently.  “Here.” He slips a couple of Tylenol tablets into Rhett’s hand, and holds out the glass of water for him to chase it with.  “How’s your stomach feel?”

“The same,” Rhett grunts.  He swallows down the pills and some of the water.  He tries to hand the glass back, still full.

Dean shakes his head.  “Try to drink a little more.  You’ve lost a lot of liquids.  You can take it slow, but you need to replenish.”

Rhett takes another sip.  “What time is it?” he asks, after he swallows.

“A little after ten.  You’ve been asleep for almost eight hours.”

Rhett blows out some air.  “Damn.”

“Yeah.  You’re pretty sick, man.  I’m glad I found you.”

Rhett meets his eyes.  “Me too.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean stays with Rhett as he finishes the glass of water.  Then he heads to the bathroom to refill it in case Rhett wakes up in the middle of the night thirsty.  When he returns, Rhett has already fallen back asleep and is snoring softly.

Dean sets the water on the nightstand then turns out the light.

He retires to Jason’s bedroom for some shut-eye himself.  He sets an alarm for four hours; he wants to check on Rhett throughout the night.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean wakes before his alarm.  He’s a light sleeper, anyway, and sleeping in a bed that isn’t his own while also worrying about his sick teammate, has proven to ramp that up.  He checks the clock on Jason’s nightstand: it’s a little after 1:00 am.

Dean turns off the scheduled alarm and sits up in bed.  He shakes himself fully awake before slipping out of the covers.

There’s soft light, flashing, coming from main room.  Soft dialogue can be heard.  Rhett must be up; he’s watching TV.

“Rhett?” Dean says softly as he approaches down the hallway, not wanting to startle his guest.  He appears from the shadows.

“Hey,” Rhett croaks from the armchair.  He’s covered in the throw blanket from the couch, legs curled under him.  The trash bin is tucked beside him.  Reruns of Cheers are playing on the TV set. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“No, I’m not sure what did,” Dean tells him.  “How long have you been up?  You okay?”

“Maybe 40 minutes?” Rhett estimates.  “Woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep.”

“Your stomach bugging you too much?” Dean assumes.

“Mm,” Rhett affirms.

Dean sighs.  “Geez, dude.  It sucks that you’re feeling so bad.”

And it’s not letting up.

“At least my ribs aren’t busted this time,” Rhett mumbles.

It’s another punch to Dean’s gut at yet another off-the-cuff remark.  He swallows hard and takes a seat on the couch.  “What do you mean by that, man?”

“Nothing,” he sighs.

Dean doesn’t accept that.  “It doesn’t sound like nothing,” he says.  Soft, but firm.  “You wouldn’t have said it if it was ‘nothing.’”

He’s met with silence.

“When did you have busted ribs?” Dean leads gently, trying to sound disarming.

It works.  Rhett sniffs.  “…A c-couple years ago.”

“And you were sick?”

Rhett lets out a wavering sigh.  “Yeah.  My pop didn’t believe me.”  He snorts softly.  “He thought I was trying to get out of walking the dog.”

Dean bites down on his lip.  “How does that turn into busted ribs?”  He’s not sure he wants to know.

In the dim light, he sees Rhett shrug. 

“He was mad.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean sits there, in stunned silence, for a while.  He doesn’t know what to say.  All he knows is he has to say something.  “Rhett…” he starts.

“No,” Rhett stops him, almost frantically.  “Don’t… Don’t say anything.  I-I don’t know why I—” He gulps.  “Oh fuck, I-I don’t feel good.”

Dean stands up.  “You gonna throw up?”

“Yeah.  Fuck—”

He breaks off with an unproductive heave as he situates the bin in his lap.  He heaves again, then coughs, liquid rushing up and out of his mouth.  He pants, spitting saliva while he waits to see if there’s more.

Dean hovers awkwardly, his own stomach turning at the sight.

Rhett’s body hitches again with another forceful gag and he groans.  He slumps over the bin, and just stays there, burping and spitting.

Dean kneels down beside him.  “Hey, I’m gonna pull your hair back, okay?” Rhett’s long, greasy hair is sticking to his cheeks, his forehead.

Rhett nods, and at his consent, Dean peels the hair away from his face and brushes it back with his fingers.  Rhett sighs gratefully, but doesn’t lift his head from the bin.

“Do you think you’re finished?” Dean asks hopefully.  He puts a careful hand on Rhett’s shoulder.

“T-Thin'so,” Rhett slurs.  He spits and lifts his head slightly.

“Okay, lean back, man,” Dean coaches, then pulls the bin from Rhett’s grasp.  “I’ll be right back.”  He retires into the bathroom with the bin, dumps the contents into the toilet, then rinses the bin out with water from the tub faucet.

When he returns to the main room, Rhett’s head is leaned back.  His eyes are closed on a too-pale, ashen face.  Throwing up again had very obviously amplified his fatigue.  He looks like a limp noddle.

“Hey, you should try to head back to bed,” Dean tells him with a hand on his shoulder.  “Sleep’s the best thing you can do right now.”

“‘Kay,” Rhett mumbles.

“Let me help you there.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean doesn’t sleep the rest of the night.

How could he?

He already knows Rhett lost his mom and sister in a tragic car accident when he was just a boy.  That’s enough to break anyone.  But on top of that, Rhett’s had to deal with an abusive father?

Dean’s not even sure that Rhett will remember divulging that information.  He wishes he could forget it.  But there’s no forgetting things that make your blood run cold.

Chest aching, Dean helps his sick teammate back into bed.  Then he exits his room quietly, biting down on the meat of his index finger to keep from losing it entirely. His legs feel like Jello as he walks the short distance down the hallway to collapse onto Jason’s bed.

Dean buries his head in the pillows.

And he cries, and cries, and cries.

---

Part 5

Rhett starts coughing around 4 am.  Deep, guttural, constant coughs.  It sounds painful enough that Dean pulls himself off the couch to go check on him.

He’s not surprised to find that Rhett is awake, sitting up in the bed, clutching his chest as he coughs.

Dean flips on the light.

“You alright, Molloy?” he asks.

Rhett can only shake his head as he wheezes.  He’s coughing so hard that his face is turning a beet red color, flush on the sickly pallor of his cheeks.  He’s coughing so much that he starts to gag and Dean thanks the heavens for his reflexes because he’s able to get the trash bin below Rhett’s mouth before he soils himself and the sheets.

There’s hardly anything to bring up, other than the water Dean has consistently pressed on him, so the upheaval is quick.

Dean sets the bin down and palms Rhett’s forehead, not surprised to find his skin blazing.  His eyes are fever-bright and he’s still coughing harshly.

Dean wants to offer him some water, to try and abate the coughing, but he needs to take his temperature first.  He pats his back.  “Okay, you’re okay.”

He knows it’s far from the truth.

Rhett swallows audibly, trying to stifle his coughs.  “S-Sorry,” he manages through the little breath he has in him.

“You’re okay, just try to relax,” Dean tells him.  “Try breathing in through your nose.”

Rhett nods shakily and his coughs start to settle down.  He doesn’t remove his hand from his chest.

“Okay, that’s it,” Dean says gently, and guides Rhett’s head to lean against his shoulder.  “Keep breathing.”

“Hurts…” Rhett mutters.

“Your chest?” Dean clarifies.

“Mm,” Rhett affirms.  “To… breathe. Everything.”

It alarms Dean, significantly, that Rhett is admitting to pain.  He can’t imagine how achy he must feel, how wrung out.  Especially if his temperature is as high as Dean suspects it is.

“I think your fever’s spiking again…” Dean tells him.  “I’m going to stick the thermometer under your tongue, okay?  Keep breathing though your nose.”

“‘Kay,” Rhett mumbles, still lightly wheezing.

They sit there, like that, waiting.  Rhett is barely able to hold back until the device beeps, and he starts coughing hard the second Dean removes it from his mouth.

Dean tries to remain calm at the number he reads: 103.8°F.

Stomach twisting with worry, Dean breaks the news to Rhett that it's time to head for the hospital.

Even more dread washes over him when Rhett agrees.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Getting a weak, barely coherent, 6' 2" swimmer of nearly solid muscle down a flight of stairs and into the car is a herculean task. Rhett is dizzy, likely from a combination of dehydration, lack of oxygen, and his gnarly fever, and he's just barely staying conscious as he puts one foot in front of the other. They make it though, Rhett coughing all the way, and now he's panting heavily as he rests his head against Dean's passenger-side window.

Dean blinks back his own exhaustion, turns the key in the ignition, and heads for the ER.

En route, he makes use of the hands-free calling function and phones Coach Jennings.

"Hello?" Coach answers the phone, groggily.

"Hey, Coach, it's Dean Sutton," Dean greets him, but cuts right to the chase.  "Really sorry for calling at this hour, but I thought you should be made aware: I'm taking Rhett Molloy to the ER.  He's really ill."

It takes Coach a second to process that.  "Okay, son," he says, more alert now.  "Elaborate on that a bit.  Tell me what's going on."

So Dean fills him in on Rhett's health and what has transpired over the past sixteen hours.  How he had found him outside of the CVS and brought him back to his place, and how his condition has only worsened despite attempts to get his fever down and keep him hydrated.  "I'm thinking it has to be the flu, or something," Dean reckons.  "A bad case. But he needs more help than I could give him at my place.  His temp is pushing 104°F."

Coach whistles lowly on his end.  "You're making the right call, Sutton," he says. "I'm going to meet your boys there.  I'll be there as soon as I can."

The relief Dean feels at those words is immense.  "Thanks, Coach."

~*~*~*~*~*~

The ER is mostly deserted, so Rhett is seen right away.

Dean's seated beside his bed, holding onto his hand.  Rhett has fallen asleep.  They've started him on a bag of saline and have him on 2L of oxygen.  They're waiting on the antigen test to come back, under the suspicion of flu. As Dean sits there, he wonders what would've happened if he hadn't found Rhett outside of the CVS.  Would he have gotten himself help?  Dean doubts it.

He tries not to think about it, and takes solace in the fact that he's getting help now.

The care team had calmed Dean down considerably, reassuring him that Rhett's temperature would come down as he became rehydrated. And Dean has to admit, Rhett already has some color back in his cheeks.

A quiet knock on the doorframe brings Dean out of his trance on Rhett's face. Coach Jennings is standing in the doorway.

"Hey, Coach," he greets softly.  "Thanks for coming."

"Of course," Coach nods. "Thank you for getting him here. I just spoke with his nurse - she said Rhett could've been in some real trouble if you hadn't found him."

"I know," Dean says hoarsely, feeling dizzy over it.  "Right time, right place sort of thing."

"Seems to happen a lot with you," Coach whispers fondly.

That's about the time that Rhett starts stirring at their low tones.

"Hey," Dean says gently, squeezing his hand gently.  "Rhett, you okay?"

He opens his eyes into slits.  "Mm," he hums.  "M'okay." He shivers harshly and blinks toward the doorway.

"Hey, kiddo," Coach says gently, when Rhett's eyes land on him.

It takes Rhett a moment to process.  "Hey," he croaks.

"I didn't mean to wake you up."

"S'alright," Rhett mumbles, then starts coughing.  Dean presses a button on the bed remote to sit Rhett up a little more to facilitate his breathing.  "Sorry-" he takes a deep breath.  "Sorry for getting you up early..."

Coach waves his hand.  "I'm a swim coach, Molloy.  I hardly consider this 'early.'"

Rhett's lips pull upward at that.

"I haven't been able to get ahold of your father yet," Coach tells him.  "I'm going to go try again."

"'Kay."

Coach knocks good-naturedly on the doorframe and disappears down the hall.

Meanwhile, Dean's gut is somersaulting at the exchange.

"Are you sure you want him to get ahold of your dad?" Dean asks him seriously.

Rhett seems unbothered.  "He won't.  He doesn't have the right number."

Dean frowns.  "What do you mean?"

"I put a fake on all my forms when I started here."

"Oh."

Dean sits with that for a while.  He can't imagine feeling so threatened by the one person who is supposed to love you unconditionally that you have to resort to fake numbers on emergency contact forms.

"Rhett, if you ever need to talk..." he starts out.

"Sutton, don't," Rhett cuts him off.  "You were never meant to hear that shit about my dad, okay?  So just leave it."

Dean swallows over the lump in his throat.  "But I did hear it," he counters hoarsely. Gently. It's not something he can just forget. "Look, I get it if you don't want to talk to me about it, but..." he lets out a deep breath.  "But maybe you should talk to someone. Like Jennings?  Or someone else you can trust?"

"Not sure what good that would do," Rhett mumbles.  He has turned his head away from Dean.  "Please, just drop it."  He sounds desperate, close to tears.

Dean closes his eyes.  "Okay," he gives in, because he understands that now isn't the time to keep pressing.  "It's dropped."

Rhett nods once, then coughs harshly into his elbow.

Dean winces at how rough it sounds.

"I hope you're not doomed to catch this, Sutton," Rhett tells him, his voice dripping with dread.  He rolls his head back to face Dean.

Dean hopes not, too, but he doesn't want Rhett to feel bad if he does wind up sick.  He goes for a joke to lighten the mood.  "What do you mean?" he asks sarcastically.  "You seem like you're having a jolly good time."

"Oh, yeah, it's a riot," Rhett says, a slight smile pulling at his lips.  He sobers and his bleary eyes meet Dean's.  "I owe you big time, man," he says, sincerely.

It catches Dean off-guard a split second, this genuine gratitude from someone who rarely has a reason to utter it.  It means a lot.

But Dean just shakes his head, because a thank you isn't warranted.  Not for this.  "That's not how family works," he tells Rhett simply.  "I'm here for you, Molloy. Whatever you need."

Dean sees a wave of emotion rush over Rhett's face at his words, and he realizes that Rhett isn't used to having people say that kind of thing to him.

"T-Thanks," he stutters out, and Dean sees some tears of relief slip down his cheeks.

And all Dean can do is squeeze his hand, hoping with all his might that the gesture conveys what he wants it to: that Rhett is safe. That he is loved.  That he is worthy.

"Get some rest, man."

Fin.

Chapter 33: tick, tock

Notes:

Characters: Dean Sutton, Jason Rhodes, Coach Jennings

Summary: I’m dying, he thinks. I’m actually dying.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting, fainting, hospitalization

Part 1

Everything is annoying Dean today.

It’s not like him.

Usually he’s in an amazing mood on Sundays.  It’s the only day during the week that he’s able to slow down a little. Catch up on studying.  Hang out with friends if he wants.

But this morning he’d had to clean up Jason’s dishes that had been left in the sink.

To be fair, it’s not like Jason to leave dirty dishes.  He’d made an elaborate breakfast for himself (pancakes, eggs, bacon, and he’d chopped up some strawberries), that ended up being cut short because his dad had called him with a plumbing emergency. He’d grown up only ten minutes from campus.

So he’d dropped everything and left to go help his dad.

Which Dean understands.  But he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t jealous that Jason gets to live so close to home.  That he can jump to help his family when they need it.  And vice versa.

He’d also be lying if he said he wasn’t feeling resentful that he was the one stuck doing dishes for a meal he didn’t even eat.

Again, to be fair, Jason had offered.

Dean just wasn’t hungry then.

And usually, Dean would just leave the dishes for Jason to wash later.  But he’d seen evidence of mice late last night (some droppings and a nibbled through cracker box in the pantry).  So they can’t risk letting dirty dishes sit.

He hasn’t gotten a chance to mention the mice to Jason, yet.

After he washes the dishes, he calls the landlord to report what he’s seen.  The landlord says he’ll be able to come out to set traps on Wednesday.

…Wednesday.

Three days from now?  Clearly the well-being of his tenants is not high on the landlord’s priority list.

Dean mumbles grumpily to himself and decides to ride his bike to the hardware store to buy his own traps.

He sets them then heads to his room to collect some dirty laundry to throw in the wash.

He checks his watch once he’s got it going.  It’s already after eleven.

Ugh.  So much of his day has been wasted doing things that shouldn’t even be his responsibility.  And he has an important biology exam the following week that he should have been studying for this whole time.

His stomach growls and it occurs to him that he hasn’t had breakfast yet.

So he scrambles up some eggs and makes some toast.

He tries to read the assigned chapter from his biology textbook as he eats, but he can’t focus. He’s pretty sure he’s read the same sentence seven times now.

Bioinformatics is proving to be the bane of Dean’s existence.

He gives up and closes his book.  He’s blinking away fatigue and trying to ignore the headache that has blossomed.  He decides a short nap will serve him well.  He tells himself that he’ll only sleep until the laundry is finished.

But first he washes up his dish to deter the mice.  He hadn’t finished his eggs.  They didn’t taste good to him today.

Then he collapses into bed, setting an alarm for twenty minutes.

~*~*~*~*~*~

When Dean wakes up, it feels like he slept for weeks.

He reaches for his phone and gasps when he reads the time.

It’s well after 4:00.

He’d slept for five hours.

His head throbs when he jumps up. How is that possible?

Ugh. He must’ve turned his alarm off in his sleep.

He rubs his face with his hands and tries to wake up.  He has to get some studying done.

He exits his room to retrieve his textbook from the kitchen table where he’d left it.

“Yo, Sutton!” Jason calls to him from the front room, where he’s watching TV.  The volume is up loud.  Dean’s been awake for two seconds and it’s already grating on his nerves.  And his head.

He tucks the textbook under his arm and joins Jason in the front room. “Hey,” he greets tiredly.

“You good, man?  You’ve been sleeping a long time.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t on purpose…” Dean says sheepishly.  “Everything go okay at home?”

Jason mutes the TV.  He’s watching a pro football game.  “Yeah, got it all sorted out.  Hey, I hope you don’t mind - I moved your laundry to the dryer.  I had a load I needed to do.”

Dean’s stomach drops.  “Wait, you did?” he asks, worried about his favorite hoodie that’s prone to shrinkage.  “On low heat?”

Jason grimaces.  “Uh… no?  Sorry, man.  I just did it on whatever setting it was already set on…”

“Great,” Dean groans sarcastically, unable to hide his annoyance.  He sets his textbook down on the coffee table and heads back to the kitchen to check his hoodie.

Jason had just tossed his dry clothes into a basket.

They’re all wrinkled.

And yup, his favorite hoodie is two sizes too small now.

Just perfect.

Jason had followed him and is looking at Dean mournfully as he inspects the garment.  “Hey, I’m really sorry…” he says, and to his credit, it sounds sincere.  “I didn’t know it would do that.  I thought I was helping you out.”

“Oh, yeah?  By stuffing my dry clothes into a basket so now they’re all wrinkled?” Dean says harshly, kicking the basket a little.  “Gee, thanks, man.”

Jason looks taken aback.  “Dean…”

Dean shakes his head.  “You know what, never mind.  It’s fine.”  He stomps back into the main room to retrieve his textbook.  “I don’t have time to deal with this, anyway.  I need to study.  Keep the volume down, will you?”

“Wait, Dean, I really think we should talk about this.  I’ll—”

“For the love of—” Dean interrupts him.  He is so done.  “Did I not just say that I don’t have time for this?  Forget it.  I’m going to the library.”

Jason puts his hands up in surrender, recognizing that Dean needs some time to cool off.

He lets him go.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean makes a hasty exit, stuffing his textbook and laptop into his backpack and grabbing his keys.

His face is hot as he walks briskly in the direction of the library; the heatwave they’ve been having this spring isn’t helping. He’s torn between feeling justified in his anger and feeling embarrassed by how he just acted.

He’s also feeling overwhelmed and emotional and tired.

Really frickin’ tired, he realizes, when he’s nearly a kilometer away from home and nearing the library.

Bone deep tired.

He slows his pace.

I’m probably just hungry, he thinks and faults that for his headache as well.  He hasn’t eaten much today. He sees the Student Union in the distance.  Maybe I should duck in there and grab a bite at the food court on my way into—

Dean’s stomach flips at just the mere thought of food.

He feels clammy all of a sudden, and woozy.

The sensation forces him to stop walking and he squeezes his eyes shut against the swirling double vision clouding his sight.

“Hey, watch it!” a passerby gripes, annoyed by Dean’s abrupt stop in the middle of the sidewalk.

It makes Dean jump a little and he mumbles an apology.  He squints his eyes back open and locates an empty bench a few paces ahead.  He beelines for it, feeling weak in the knees.  Feeling weak everywhere.

This is bad, he thinks to himself as he shrugs his backpack off his shoulders and collapses onto the bench.  Something’s not right.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees and head in his hands.

His heart is pounding in his chest.  He’s covered in goosebumps.

Seriously, what the hell?

He tries breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, but the woozy feeling is still there.  He feels utterly alone and so, so sick.

He’s scared he’s about to pass out.  That’s how bad it is.

He needs help.

He fumbles for his phone and manages to tell Siri to call Jason.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings.  Then, “Dean?” Jason questions into the phone, voice laced with confusion.  “Did you mean to call me?”  Even in his disoriented state, Dean recognizes that he is the last person Jason had been expecting to hear from.

“Yeah,” Dean mumbles shakily.  His voice sounds funny.  His stomach aches.  “C-Can you c-come get me?”

“Come get you?” Jason repeats as he processes that.  Then his voice softens.  “Hey… are you alright?  What’s wrong?”

Dean swipes at his eyes. He hadn’t realized he’d started crying, but there are tears on his cheeks.  Jason must’ve heard it in his voice.

He sniffs.  “I-I don’t know,” he mumbles.  “I-I feel really s-sick all of a sudden.  Please, Jace?”

“You feel sick?” Jason echoes, and he sounds genuinely concerned.

“Mm,” Dean confirms.  “I-I… my vision’s slipping.” He feels like that’s important to say.  He can’t see anything at this point beyond dancing patches of hazy light.  He blinks against the wave of heat washing over him, feeling his whole world tilt.  “Please…”

His voice sounds distant and the lightheaded feeling has only gotten stronger.  Blindly, he lists to the side so that he’s lying down on the bench because he’s afraid he’ll pitch forward and smash his face up on the concrete otherwise.

“Okay, okay, buddy,” Jason says over the line, tenuously calm, as Dean fights to remain conscious.  “It’s going to be alright.  I’m already on my way.”  Vaguely, Dean hears the sound of a car engine turning over.  “Where are you? Did you make it to the library?”

“No. Union.  I’m—” he breaks off with an unproductive dry-heave that catches him off-guard.  He moans then swallows against liquid rising in his throat. “‘m gonna throw up…” he articulates with a groan.

Jason says something to that, but Dean doesn’t know what because he drops his phone as he expends what little energy he has on shifting to his side so he can puke in the grass rather than all of himself.  The phone slips out of his numb hands and Dean is too preoccupied with the nausea to do anything about it.

As bile starts spilling out of his lips, a sear of pain shoots through his skull.  It comes out of nowhere and Dean can’t cope with it.  He coughs, chokes, as he heaves, and the pain skyrockets.

I’m dying, he thinks. I’m actually dying.

It’s his last thought before he passes out cold.

---

Part 2

When Dean comes to, his head is throbbing and his mouth is dry.  He’s disoriented and doesn’t know where he is or how he got there. His vision is blurry and he tries to blink his eyes into focus so he can take in his surroundings.

It dawns on him slowly that he’s in a hospital room. He can hear a monitor beeping beside him and can feel where an IV is inserted into his arm.  He reaches up to rub his eyes with his free hand to clear his vision the rest of the way.

“Dean?” Jason’s voice is close, and Dean attempts to turn his head to locate him, but his head is too heavy. Fortunately, Jason appears in Dean’s line of sight soon after, taking ahold of his hand and sitting on the edge of his bed. “Hey, you’re awake.”

Jason sounds relieved, but his voice is shaky and his eyes are puffy.  He’s been crying.

Dean licks his lips.  “What…?

“You’re pretty sick, bud,” Jason says hoarsely.  “We’re gettin’ you sorted out.”

“How…?” Dean doesn’t remember how he got here.

“You called me.  Do you remember that?”

Dean nods.  It vaguely rings a bell.

“I was on my way to you, but I think you dropped your phone - or maybe you passed out - and you weren’t responding to me anymore. I hung up with you and called 9-1-1. I just… I knew something was really wrong.  The paramedics beat me there and were loading you in the ambulance when I arrived. They said you were unresponsive.”

Dean blinks at that information.  He doesn’t remember any of that, or anything after, and it scares him.  “Oh,” he whispers.  He can feel his heart thumping in his chest.

Jason swallows hard and continues.  “The paramedics told me you came around en route to the hospital, but you were disoriented. Talking, but not making a whole lot of sense.  You were asking for me.”

Dean bites down on his lip.  “I don’t… I-I don’t remember that,” he says shakily.

Jason, squeezes his hand. “Hey, it’s okay if you can’t remember,” he says gently, recognizing that Dean is about spiral.  “You were running a fever close to 105°F, man.  It would be a miracle if you remembered anything while you were running that hot.”

Dean shivers and closes his eyes.  He’s the opposite of hot right now, and it occurs to him that there are ice packs stuffed under his knees and armpits.

“They’re trying to keep your temperature down,” Jason explains when Dean shifts his legs uncomfortably.  “They put you in an ice bath when you got here, and now they’re trying to maintain your temp with the packs."

“Mm,” Dean acknowledges with a hum.  He’s so tired but forces his eyes back open.  “D-Do they know what’s wrong with me?”

Jason nods.  “Yeah, they have a pretty good theory.  They think you have something called Rocky Mountain Fever,” he pauses, trying to get the name right.  “I mean Spotted Fever.  It’s a tick-borne illness, and your symptoms apparently check all the boxes.”

Dean’s mind reels at that information.  “A tick bite?” he repeats.  What the hell?

Jason nods.  “You have a weird rash on your ankles.  That’s what made them move forward with treatment.  That, and they’ve seen an uptick in cases recently.  They already started you on antibiotics.”

“Where would I have gotten bit by a tick?” Dean croaks.

Jason shrugs.  “I don’t know, man.  The doctor was grilling me, asking if you’ve been out in any wooded areas lately, or if we have any pets because I guess animals can carry them.  I told him no, but he still seemed sure that’s what’s going on with you because of the rash.  Said your symptoms are ‘textbook.’”

Dean processes that, slowly.  But then a thought occurs to him.  “Do mice carry them, you think?” he asks.

Jason’s eyes widen.  “Oh, shit, man.  I bet they do.  I forgot I saw the traps you put out… We have mice?”

Dean nods slightly; the movement hurts his head, but he tries to ignore it.  He even goes for a joke: “Yeah.  Figured I’d come up with a dramatic way of telling you.”

It falls flat.  Jason blanches.  “Dude…” His voice is strangled and tears start welling up in his eyes.

“Hey, that was supposed to make you laugh,” Dean tells him.  He wishes he could make his voice stronger.

Jason shakes his head and wipes at his eyes.  “Sorry,” he mumbles.  “You just… you really scared me, Dean.”

“M’sorry,” Dean mumbles.

“No, hey…” Jason sniffs and then takes his hand again.  “I’m just…” he trails off and seems to shake himself.  “H-How’re you feeling?  I should probably get a nurse in here.”  He reaches over Dean for the remote attached to the bedrail and presses the call button.

“M’really tired,” Dean admits.  “Head is pounding.  E-Everything’s sore.”

Jason frowns at that.  “Hopefully the nurse can give you some pain meds,” he says.  “How’s your stomach?”

Dean swallows.  “Feels wrung out.”

Jason grimaces.  “Yeah, you threw up a lot.”

Dean, thankfully, doesn’t remember much of that, but his sore throat and the bad taste in his mouth confirm it as true.

“You want to try some water?” Jason asks.

Dean’s stomach flips at the suggestion.  He shakes his head and closes his eyes.  He can feel exhaustion starting to win out.

Jason squeezes his hand.  “Okay, man. Okay,” he says calmly.

He doesn’t let go until the nurse arrives.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next few hours are a blur.

Dean is too fatigued to stay awake for long, but he wakes periodically to nurses fussing over him.  Jason is always there, by his side.  At one point, Coach Jennings appears, too.

One time, when he wakes, he throws up again.  It’s a full-blown nausea attack and it’s hard for him to stop vomiting. A nurse holds a basin in front of him while Jason rubs his back.  Coach fires questions at the nurse, and it scares Dean when she tells him that this is normal.  That the antibiotics often make the patients feel sicker before they feel better.

He collapses into the pillows once it stops, finally stops, and he lets sleep pull him back under.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next time he wakes, he feels a little more put together.  Rested.  Alert.

It’s late into the evening and Coach Jennings has gone down to get him and Jason some dinner from the cafeteria. Jason is still by Dean’s bedside.  He hasn’t left even for a second.

It makes Dean’s heart ache, how unwaveringly Jason has been there for him.  He is quite literally, one in a million.

“I feel bad,” Dean says, practically blurts, to the quiet room.

Jason jumps up from his seat, on high alert at Dean’s words.  “What’s the matter?  Do you need me to get a nurse?”

Dean winces, realizing how that must’ve sounded; he hadn’t meant to alarm him.  “No, no, I’m fine,” he assures weakly.

It’s not his illness that’s troubling him right now.

Jason swallows hard.  “You just said you feel bad…” he breathes, not understanding.  But he sits back down.

“I meant about before.  Back at the apartment,” Dean explains lamely.

Jason puts a hand on his chest and lets out a sigh of relief.  “Oh,” he whispers.  “That’s all.”

Dean sees what he’s doing.  “Don’t brush it off, Jace,” he says.  The shame in his voice is blaring.  “I was way out of line.”

Jason frowns.  “Dean, bud, we don’t need to talk about that right now,” he says gently.  “C’mon, you need to rest.  Don’t get yourself worked up.”

“Please,” Dean practically begs him.

Jason sighs, giving in.  “You had every right to be upset,” he says.  “I’m the one who messed up."

But Dean shakes his head.  “It was an accident,” he says.  “And I treated you horribly over something so… stupid.  Trivial.”

“Dean, hey, c’mon, please don’t beat yourself up about that,” Jason says.  He gets up so he can join Dean on the bed.  He wraps his arm around his shoulder and pulls him in close.  “You were overwhelmed and not feeling well.  It’s okay to lose yourself for a little bit when you’re feeling like that.  I swear I didn’t take it personally, man.”

Dean can’t help it: he starts to cry and turns his head into the crevice of Jason’s neck, seeking comfort. “I’m sorry,” he breathes.

Jason touches his lips to Dean’s hair and shushes him.  “Hey, it’s okay,” he whispers, his voice dripping with emotion. “I’m sorry, too.”

They sit there, like that, with Jason rocking Dean back and forth.  He needed Jason to do this: to hold him together like this.  When he has calmed down considerably, Jason pulls back, but keeps a hand on his shoulder.  He cranes his neck to look Dean in the eyes, with a silent, you good?

Dean nods and gives his friend a grateful smile.  He’s so thankful for him.  For his loyalty.  For his understanding.  For his grace.

Jason’s gaze lingers on him a little longer, and then he pats Dean’s shoulder.  He stands up and returns to his seat.  He’s quiet for a beat, and then he says:

“So, unrelated, but you wear a size medium, right?”

Chapter 34: fears laid bare

Notes:

Characters: Evan Guthrie, Porter Jones

Summary: Evan is forced to face his deepest fear when he becomes violently ill in the middle of the night.

Author's Note: This story introduces a new character named Evan Guthrie. He is another freshman swimmer and the reclusive roommate of Porter Jones, who has been mentioned in previous stories.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

Evan has always been the kind of person who thrives on control. He’s meticulous with his study habits, perfectly organized with his notes, and the dorm room he shares with Porter is a testament to his preference for cleanliness and order.

He keeps to himself quite a bit.  Most of the team sees him as an introvert, which is true on a rudimentary level.  What they don’t know is that his reclusiveness is driven by a deep-seated fear: his emetophobia. Until now, he’s managed to hide the nagging anxiety that always seems to lurk in the background, manifesting itself as constant unease whenever he encounters a hint of nausea.

It is a fear he has lived with for years, a hidden companion in the dark corners of his mind, spurred on by a strand of norovirus that nearly took his life when he was a child. Now it’s left him objectively paranoid: always carrying sanitizer and disinfectant with him and using it religiously, backing out of social gatherings where there will be crowds in close confines, avoiding public restrooms at all costs, careful about expiratory dates on food products, taking up a sport where he’s surrounded by chlorine, a known germ-killer…

For ten long years, he’s evaded sickness.

But tonight, as he sits at his desk with his take-out dinner from the Union, he has a sinking feeling that his streak might be coming to an end.

He feels off.

It has been creeping up on him all day.

He first noticed it during his calculus lecture that afternoon.  He had a hard time focusing and felt a little shivery.  Then, during swim practice, he’d felt like he was exerting more energy than was showing for his efforts.  And now, he has virtually no appetite.

He tries to tell himself that it’s all in his head and eats what he can of the fettuccine Alfredo and broccoli.  He tries to busy his mind by reading a chapter in his biology textbook as he chews and swallows.  He’s blinking back fatigue and while he eats, his stomach begins to protest with insistent discomfort - a slight churn, as if his body is disagreeing with his choices.

He stops eating immediately and pushes himself away from his desk.  He swallows hard and stands to throw away what’s left of his meal in the designated trash cans outside of the dorm room so he doesn’t have to smell the remnants.

His body feels heavy as he makes the short trip.

When he returns, the room is tilting slightly, and Evan is unsure if it’s a symptom of genuine illness or if it’s from panic starting to creep up on him at the potential of it all. He decides to lie down in his bed for a while, to see if that helps him feel better.  He refuses to put the trash can by his bed, not wanting it to become a self-fulfilling prophecy.

If anything, lying down only exacerbates the discomfort in his stomach.  His gut feels like a tightly wound coil, intensified by gnawing dread.  But fatigue is also washing over him, and as a defense response, he succumbs to it, letting sleep shelter him from all feeling.

He sleeps deeply.  So deeply that he doesn’t even hear Porter come in for the night.

But his slumber is ultimately interrupted in the dead of the night, when a wave of intense nausea jolts him awake. Panic shoots through him, sending his heart racing and his pulse pounding in his ears. Terror grips him and he clutches his stomach that’s twisting with an intensity that he hasn’t experienced in over a decade. He sits up, gasping for air against the fear clawing his throat. He desperately tries to will the sick feeling away, but it’s to no avail.

“Oh god,” he mumbles shakily, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. There’s bile in his throat and he feels almost paralyzed, by both the nausea and the crushing anxiety, but he pushes through it to pull the trashcan over beside him.

His movement causes Porter to stir awake from the adjacent bed, as Evan does his best to gulp down the heaves that are threatening to surface. He grips the bedsheets tightly, fighting to tame the swell of fear that's crashing over him like a tidal wave.

“Evan?” Porter says to the darkness, sounding muffled and distant. He flips on a light, casting a warm glow that feels too bright and too harsh.  “You alright?” His voice holds a gentle note of concern, cutting through the turmoil that’s surrounding Evan like a suffocating mist.

Evan can’t find his voice to respond.  He squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head, feeling utterly powerless.  There are tears streaming down his cheeks and he’s panting heavily.

Porter is immediately alert, recognizing his roommate’s distress.  He rises from his bed and moves swiftly to kneel down beside Evan.  “Hey, hey, breathe,” he urges calmly, placing a steady hand on his knee.  “What’s happening?”

“I—I feel really sick,” Evan manages to choke out.

“To your stomach?” Porter clarifies, undoubtedly noting the trashcan lingering nearby.  “You feel like you’re going to throw up?”

Evan hesitates to nod, because putting a name to it makes it all too real.  “I—I don’t want to…” He brings a fist up to his mouth.  He hiccups.  “I—I can’t…”

The physical discomfort is almost overshadowed by mounting fear that is building in his chest, urging him to escape, to run, to hide. But there is nowhere to escape—he’s trapped in his own skin, and the reality of the situation is imminent.

“Hey, I can tell this has you really keyed up,” Porter says, his voice soothing.  And even in his haze of panic, Evan appreciates Porter’s diplomatic phrasing.  He could have just as easily, and more accurately, said, “I can tell you’re losing your shit.”  Porter takes a cautious seat on the edge of the bed beside Evan, and places a warm hand at the nape of his clammy neck. He squeezes it gently.  “I get it, man.  But you’re going to be okay.  I’m right here with you.”

Evan shakes his head.  What if he’s not okay?  What if he gets so sick that he has to go to the hospital again, like the episode ten years ago that left scars etched into his psyche?  He presses his hand on his stomach, can feel his insides twisting.  He can’t breathe.  “I—I can’t stop it,” he moans.  The pressure building inside him is like a volcano ready to erupt.

“Then stop fighting it,” Porter says softly, like it’s that simple.  “Let your body do what it needs to do.  It’s going to be okay.”

Porter starts rubbing his hand up and down Evan’s back.  It’s painfully intimate and if Evan wasn’t so preoccupied with the impending revolt of his stomach, he would be embarrassed.  But right now he’s just scared.  So scared that he feels dizzy over it.  Lightheaded.

It’s not going to be okay.  It’s not.

He gulps.  He’s too weak to hold it back anymore.  Too exhausted.

“Evan, you need to lean over the trashcan,” Porter coaches gently, and nudges the bin a little closer.

“No…” Evan moans futilely.  “Please…”

He can’t swallow it down anymore and saliva is dripping out of his mouth, thick and fast.

Oh god, it’s happening.

Porter helps him bend at the waist so that his mouth is positioned over the bin.

It happens suddenly: he loses the last shred of control he has over his body and jolts forward with a violent heave. The release is agonizing and comes in a torrent, the contents of his stomach emptying out, warm and vile. The sound, the motion, it sends shivers through his body and it’s not stopping.

He feels like he’s drowning, struggling to breathe, and he keeps getting sick.  Vaguely, he’s aware of Porter talking to him him in low tones, holding onto him as liquid spills out of his mouth, his stomach clenching painfully with each heave.

“Ev, you’re empty,” he hears Porter say after an indistinguishable amount of time, an eternity.  “It’s over.  Try to settle down.”

But it’s not over.  He still feels just as sick — maybe even sicker, if it’s possible — and his exhaustion has ramped up to a whole new level.  His body won’t stop trying to purge.  He can’t stop retching.  He doesn’t know how to get back in control.  He doesn’t think it’s possible.

“N—No… it’s still h—happening,” he stutters out between heaves.

Porter palms his forehead then glides a hand through Evan’s sweaty hair.  “You’re not bringing anything up, man,” he tries to reason.  “You need to sit back and breathe.  I’ll help you.”

The world tilts on its axis as Porter moves him, sliding his hips toward the headboard and pushing his back into the pillows, effectively bringing his head out of the depths of the trashcan. 

“No, stop—” Evan begs him frantically.  He’s so dizzy.  So nauseous.  “I’m gonna be sick.  I—” he breaks off, still gagging.  He tries to reach for the bin, scared he’s going to make a mess of the sheets, but he’s too weak.  He squeezes his eyes shut as he chokes against the nausea.

“Evan, you’re okay,” Porter tells him, firmly, but still as calm was ever.  Unfazed.  “Can you open your eyes and look at me?”

Evan forces his eyes into slits, swallowing convulsively.  His stomach is wrung out and he cradles his belly with one arm while he holds the other hand up to his mouth as he dry retches into his palm.  He meets Porter’s eyes, his vision blurry with tears of exertion.

“Breathe with me, man,” Porter says, reaching to hold onto the hand clamped on Evan’s mouth.  It’s covered in drool, but Porter doesn’t react to it.  He just squeezes his hand, and breathes deeply through his nose then out through his mouth, trying to get Evan to follow suit.

It’s surreal having Porter so close to him in this moment of vulnerability, yet his unwavering presence is keeping Evan tethered to something solid amidst the storm.  He sucks in some air and coughs, nearly choking on it.  But he tries again.  Steadier this time.

Just breathe.

“There you go,” Porter praises him, as a fraction of the tension and nausea starts to ebb away.  “You’re taking back control, Ev.  Keep breathing.”

Evan nods shakily, his eyes slipping closed again because they’re too heavy to stay open.  But he lets Porter continue to coach him through breathing and tries to regain an iota of composure.

He does, slowly.  Very slowly everything starts to settle.  His vision starts to clear.  His breathing evens out.  He stops having to fight the urge to gag.

Porter squeezes his hand again and Evan reopens his eyes.  “See?” he says, soothing and kind.  “That sucked, but you survived it.  It’s behind you now.”

Evan shivers, suddenly aware that he’s drenched in sweat.  He’s not comforted by Porter’s words.  His stomach still aches and malaise is encompassing every cell in his body.  “It could happen again,” he croaks, his heart rate increasing at just the thought of it.

Porter nods.  “Yes, it could,” he says, matter-of-fact, but still gentle.  “But you just proved you can get through it.”

Tears slips down Evan’s cheeks.  “N-Not with any dignity,” he breathes, hating himself for this part of him.  He feels on display now.  Embarrassed.  “You m-must think I’m a total freak.”

Porter frowns.  “Because you hate vomiting?” he asks.  “Dude, that doesn’t make you a freak.  Now, if you enjoyed vomiting?  That would make you a freak.”

Evan knows he’s trying to lighten the mood, but he doesn’t think Porter understands.  “Y-You don’t get it,” he says, strangled.  How does he explain to him that the fear of vomiting drives the decisions he makes in his daily life?  That moving forward from this is going to be near impossible because his fear has been completely realized?  Being ill like this is just as terrible as he imagined - maybe even worse.

“I think I do get,” Porter counters.  “This is a big thing for you, yeah?” And he says it in a way that surpasses understanding.  “That’s okay, man.  We all have stuff we wrestle with.  I get why you’re always disinfecting everything now.”

“I hate b-being like this,” Evan whispers, his voice thick with emotion.  “I-I never wanted anyone t-to know…”

“Hey,” Porter hushes.  “Now that I know, you don’t have to face this on your own.  I can’t imagine how isolating this has been for you.”

Evan starts crying harder at that, unable to comprehend the kindness Porter is showing him.  It’s almost suffocating.

“Hey,” Porter says again.  “That was supposed to make you feel better, not make you cry!”

“M’sorry,” Evan mumbles and reaches up to swipe at his eyes.  “I-I just… I-I don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t here.  Y-You’re so great and I-I hate that you’re stuck with a total shit-show of a roommate like me.”

“You’re not a shit-show, Guthrie.  On the outside looking in?  You’re one of the most put-together people I know.”

“You’re easily fooled, then,” Evan mumbles weakly.

“We can debate this when you’re feeling better,” Porter tells him with finality.  “You must be exhausted.  I think you’re running a heck of a fever.  Your shirt is completely soaked through.”

Evan shivers.  “Yeah.”

Porter gives his leg a comforting squeeze and stands to retrieve a fresh shirt from one of Evan’s drawers. Evan watches as Porter wets their hand towel at the sink then brings it over to wipe the sweat off of Evan’s brow.  The cool cloth feels good on his fevered skin.  He helps him out of the sweat-soaked shirt and into his fresh one.

And Evan lets him because he doesn’t have the steam to do it on his own.  His dignity is really taking a hit tonight.

Then Porter moves to take care of the soiled trashcan, but that’s where Evan draws the line.

“Porter, no,” he says.  “Y-You shouldn’t have to deal with that.”

Porter raises his eyebrows.  “Between the two of us, who is more equipped to handle this?”

Evan grimaces.  “Y-You,” he admits, trying not to relive the agonizing moments spent clinging to the trashcan in question.  His stomach twists at the reminder.

“Exactly.  I promise you, Ev, I don’t mind doing this for you, okay?”

“But—”

Porter raises a hand to quiet him.  “Tell you what.  Let’s make a deal. From now on, I’ll handle any and all of the puke receptacles.  And you will be the official bug-killer of room 214.  Does that sound like a fair arrangement?”

Evan nods slowly as he considers.  “Y-Yeah,” he agrees.  “Okay.  Deal.”

Porter gives him a reassuring smile, and in that moment, Evan begins to understand that when it comes to fear, no matter how insurmountable that fear may seem, refuge can always be sought, and found, in the support of a friend.

Chapter 35: a lesson in limits

Notes:

Characters: Phil Lammers, Scott Keene, Adam Groves, Rhett Molloy, Porter Jones

Summary: When a playful competition among friends lands Phil in a world of discomfort, Scott steps up to provide care and support through an unexpected crisis.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting, overindulgence

“Hey, Scott!  We need you!”

Adam's jovial voice breaks into Scott’s study session in the common area of their dorm.  Scott had been studying anatomy for two hours straight, ever since he got back from the guys’ swim practice that morning.  He’d been in the zone, but is more than welcoming of a break.

Some of the freshman swimmers had gone out to lunch at the hometown buffet that’s near campus.  They’d invited Scott along, but he’d declined. He doesn’t have as big of an appetite as the swimmers do, and it’s a pricey place to go if you don’t have the penchant for eating to get your money’s worth.

Scott looks up from his textbook to see Adam, Phil, Rhett, and Porter lined up in front of him.  The guys can barely contain their laughter and it has Scott intrigued.

“Okay…” he says slowly.  “What to you need?”

In unison, they each remove their shirts and Scott raises his brows, confused. 

“We need you to be the judge!” Porter says.  “Who has the biggest belly?”

Scott can’t help himself; he bursts out laughing.  The sight is comical: the usually toned swimmers—whose bodies are ripped with muscle from years of hard training— are now standing before him with taut bellies transformed into swollen, rounded forms, the result of their overindulgence at the buffet.

“Keene, this isn’t a laughing matter!” Rhett says with mock seriousness.

“Okay, okay,” Scott says, sobering as he feigns contemplation, squinting at each of their bellies from different angles. The guys are all striking goofy poses, puffing out their bellies as far as they will go.  “This is so ridiculous,” he mumbles.  The swimmers are always coming up with competitive antics over the silliest of things.

Scott notices how Phil is the only one who is holding his stomach with two hands, like his belly is so heavy he has to hold it.  He’s the clear winner.

“I’ve got to give it to Lammers,” Scott says with finality, and the other guys ultimately agree.  They each slap Phil’s stomach in jest.

Scott is honestly floored at how stuffed Phil’s midsection looks.

Phil taps his fingers on his stomach triumphantly and grins.  “That’s what eating eight full plates will get ya,” he jokes.  “Bragging rights… and regret.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

A little later, back in their dorm room, Scott is sprawled out on the futon watching some mindless television and Phil is studying at his desk.  Scott can’t help but notice how much Phil is shifting uncomfortably in his chair, letting out occasional grunts.  He’s rubbing his upper belly with one hand while he tries to read a chapter in his book.

Scott chuckles to himself.  It’s a little funny how miserable Phil seems just from eating too much.  “You okay over there, champ?” he teases him lightly.

Phil grimaces.  “Just struggling a bit to digest all that food,” he admits meekly.  “No one to blame but myself, but man, my stomach hurts.”  He draws in a deep breath and shudders.  “I can’t even focus right now.”

Scott frowns a little at how weak Phil’s voice sounds.  “Maybe you should lie down for a bit,” he suggests.

Phil nods.  “Yeah, that might be a good idea,” he agrees.  With a reluctant sigh and what appears to be a great effort, Phil stands from his desk chair and crosses the room to his bed, flopping down with a huff.  He groans into his pillow and wraps both arms around his aching belly.

Scott bites down on his lip, watching him.  “You want to try some Tums?” he offers.  “I have some.”

“Sure,” Phil nods, turning on his side and curling his legs up to his middle.  “Gosh, this is awful. I hope they help.”

“Me too,” Scott says.  He retrieves the bottle from his dresser drawer and shakes a couple of tablets into Phil’s palm.  He fetches his water bottle for him, too.

“Thanks, man,” Phil says with a grunt as he hoists himself up with shaking arms to get the tablets down.  He collapses back into his mattress once he does, going right back to the fetal position, hugging his belly tightly.

As the minutes drag on, Phil’s condition seems to worsen. He keeps shifting in the bed, trying to get comfortable, but he doesn’t seem to be having any luck.  Every few minutes he burps, then moans.  When the hiccups start, he sounds almost sickly.

“Dude,” Scott says, after half an hour of this.  “You’re really going through it.  Are you good?”

“No,” Phil admits weakly, his cheeks flushing with shame on his otherwise ashen face.  He presses his hands against his taut belly as if that could will the pain away and glances at Scott nervously.  “I really think I overdid it.  Like, it’s not just ‘oh, I’m too full.’  This is like… bad, dude.”

“Yeah, you do look a little off-color,” Scott tells him reluctantly.  “Can I do anything to help?”

Phil lets out a shuddering breath.  “I don’t think so.  M’sorry for being so annoying about this.  It’s so embarrassing.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Scott says casually.  “I’m just sorry you’re feeling so rough.”

“Ugh.” Phil jolts as a cramp rips through his abdomen and he curls up more tightly in a ball.  “Oh gosh.”  His face is contorted with pain and he’s panting unevenly.  “I don’t feel good.  Why… isn’t this… letting up?” he groans.

“I don’t know, man,” Scott tells him sympathetically.  He thought the Tums would’ve kicked in by now.  “Just try to breathe through it,” he advises, feeling utterly helpless. Seeing Phil this uncomfortable is sending ripples of worry through him.

As he watches Phil struggle against unrelenting cramps, he becomes increasingly concerned. He can hear soft burps coming from the depths of Phil’s innards, interrupting the quiet of the room, each one adding to the discomfort radiating from his friend. His moans and struggles escalate quickly into palpable distress.

Just as Scott is about to suggest he try sitting up to see if changing positions would help, Phil starts trembling.  He whimpers reluctantly, “Scott, I think… I think I need to throw up.  I-I feel really nauseous all of a sudden.”

Without hesitation, Scott jumps up to grab the trashcan from the corner of the room.  “Okay, here,” he says as calmly as he can manage at a time like this.  “I’ve got you covered.”  He puts it on the floor by Phil’s head.

Phil’s face is twisted in a nauseated grimace as he pushes through his arms to hover over the trashcan.

“Here, sit all the way up,” Scott tells him, and helps him get more vertical.  His own stomach clenches at the pained moan that escapes Phil from the exertion.  Phil’s t-shirt is soaked through with sweat and there’s heat wafting from him.  It makes Scott’s concern for him climb even higher as he suspects what is going on with his friend might be a little more sinister than simple overindulgence.

Scott slides the trashcan between his legs and helps Phil bend over the rim. He’s shaking against the sickness and Scott feels so bad for him in that moment.  Phil presses down on his stomach, futilely trying to get the process going. He’s making the ever-cringeworthy pre-puke noises as saliva drips into the bin, thick and fast.

“Just try to relax,” Scott coaches him, taking a seat beside his suffering friend.  He starts rubbing circles in his back.

Phil leans over even further, his aching stomach pressing into his thighs.  He burps lowly, and then it happens.

He starts spewing forth the contents of his earlier feast, like the floodgates have opened. The first wave quickly turns into torrent after torrent, aggressive gushes of undigested food and bile spilling from him. His body bucks as he struggles against the force of it all, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Scott maintains contact with him throughout the entire ordeal, steadying him and rubbing his back.  The upheaval is long and drawn out, each exhalation merging with another wave of vomit.  “There you go buddy,” Scott murmurs soothingly, feeling the tension in the muscles of Phil’s back as his body contorts with effort.  “It’ll pass.  Just let it all out.”

Scott’s own stomach is turning at the spectacle and smell of it all.

Eventually, Phil is reduced to dry heaves as his body takes a moment to recognize that he’s empty.  He leans forward, resting his forehead against the cool edge of the trashcan and spits a few final times.  His breathing is ragged.

“Ugh, dude…” Phil breathes, his eyes fluttering shut.  “I feel awful.”  He’s completely and utterly spent.

“I know, man,” Scott validates, still massaging Phil’s back.  “That looked miserable.  Here, let’s get you leaning back.”  He helps Phil slide his hips toward the pillows at the headboard so he can lean against them.  Phil still has his arms tightly wound around his belly, his stomach wrung out from exertion.

Scott pushes back the sweaty strands of hair that had fallen in front of Phil’s eyes.  In doing so, he feels blazing skin underneath his fingertips, confirming the fever that Scott had started to suspect.

“Phil, I think you’re running a fever, bud.”

Phil blinks bleary eyes open at him.  “W-What?”

Scott nods.  “I don’t think you feel bad just because you overate.  I think you’ve caught a flu.”

Phil shivers harshly as he processes that.  “Oh,” he whispers.  “G-Great timing.”

Scott retrieves a bottle of water from their mini fridge and offers it to Phil.  “Try to sip on that slowly, if you can,” he instructs, then takes a seat on the foot of the bed.  He pats Phil’s leg gently.  “Hey, at least you know it wasn’t completely the buffet’s fault.”

“Yeah, well, even still.  I think it’ll be a hot minute before I go back there again,” Phil replies weakly, a little sheepishly.  He takes a timid sip of the water, then sets it down.

Scott chuckles quietly, amazed at his roommate’s ability to make light out of a miserable situation.  “Yeah, that’s probably for the best,” he agrees.  His eyes scan Phil’s body up and down. “You must be exhausted after all that,” he comments.  “Why don’t you get some rest? If you think you can.”

Phil yawns and then nods.  “My stomach still hurts, but I’m too tired to keep my eyes open,” he says. “I’ll probably be able to fall asleep.”

“Okay, good,” Scott says and pulls the covers out from underneath Phil’s shivering form.  He pulls them up to his chin.  “I’ll wake you up in a couple of hours to hydrate.”

And Phil, who never ceases to be earnest in everything that he does, says, “Okay.  Thanks for always being there for me, Scott.”

“Of course,” Scott tells him easily.  “There’s never a dull moment with you, Lammers.”

Chapter 36: escape

Notes:

Characters: Porter Jones, Evan Guthrie, Scott Keene, Phil Lammers

Summary: Porter comes down with a stomach bug in the middle of the night and wants to protect Evan from it. He's thankful for his good neighbor, Scott.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

It's Friday night, and Porter and Evan are decompressing from a tough week of classes and swim practices by playing Mario Kart. Laughter punctuates their shared space as they launch shells and drift around corners, each attempting to outmaneuver the other. They’ve been playing for hours, racing through the colorful tracks, their banter flowing as easily as their laughter.

As the night wears on, Porter begins to notice an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach. It starts as a small cramp, easily brushed aside amid their friendly competition. A general ill feeling grows as they continue to race, and then some mild nausea starts to creep in. Still, Porter tries to brush it off as indigestion.

But as they're gearing up for Rainbow Road, Porter starts to feel really awful. Exhaustion is settling in and his stomach is churning ominously. He's shivery and weak. He doesn't mention how he's feeling to Evan, knowing that any word of an upset stomach could send his roommate spiraling, due to his intense emetophobia. Porter hopes he can just sleep this ill feeling away without it amounting to anything substantial. Both for his sake and Evan's.

After a close Rainbow Road race, Porter decides he’s had enough for the night. “Hey, man, this was really fun, but I think I’m going to hit the hay," he says, hoping he sounds casual. “I’m pretty beat.”

Evan accepts that easily, already repositioning himself to continue the game solo. He doesn't recognize that anything is awry. "Alright man, sleep well!" he says.

Porter nods and crawls into his bed, not even bothering to make the long walk to the communal bathrooms to brush his teeth. The sheets of his bed feel warm and envelope him as he pulls them up to his chin. It’s comforting and cozy, and before he even has a chance to reflect on the discomfort raging in his belly, exhaustion starts to pull him under. As soon as his head sinks into the pillow, he succumbs almost instantly to sleep, letting the hum of the game fade away.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Porter jolts awake in the middle of the night, sweat trickling down the nape of his neck. His stomach is twisting violently, cramping in a way that tells him he's severely ill. Intense nausea rises in his throat like a relentless tide. Panic trickles in—but not just for himself. Mostly, he thinks of Evan, and how he'll react to the situation.

Porter pushes himself up in the bed, arms trembling. Vertigo slams into him and he realizes that he likely doesn't have the time, or the energy, to make it down the long hallway to the bathrooms. Throwing up is imminent.

But maybe he can still warn Evan and get him out of the room before it happens.

Shakily, he crosses their small room to retrieve the trashcan by the door. He flips on the light switch, wincing as the overhead light floods the space. Then he drags the can over to his bed. "Evan," he calls. He gulps against his stomach's rising revolt. "Evan, you need to wake up."

Porter collapses back onto his mattress as Evan stirs.

"Hmm? Porter? What's going on?" Evan asks groggily. He sits up, blinking the sleep away from his eyes.

"P-Please don't freak out," Porter tells him over the urge to gag. "But I'm about to puke. Y-You need to-" Porter breaks off as saliva floods his mouth. He spits it out into the bin, trying his damndest not to fully succumb to the nausea for the sake of his friend.

Evan is on his feet in an instant. "Oh god! I can’t—” His eyes are wide, face shifting from grogginess to sheer terror. “I can’t deal with that!"

"I know," Porter chokes out. "I'm sorry. Just go next door, okay?" He spits again. "Please. T-To Phil and Scott's. It's... It's happening, man. You need to go."

Evan doesn't need to be told twice; he grabs his phone and then he's out the door in a heartbeat, his panic propelling him to the point that Porter actually feels the wind from his retreat. The door slams closed, and immense relief washes over Porter that Evan was able to escape. He's thankful that Phil and Scott have a futon and giving hearts, and he knows they'll let Evan stay with them for as long as he needs. With Porter's relief comes a torrent of stomach juices and bile as his body finally succumbs to the nausea he had been trying so hard to suppress.

It's noisy and messy and lonely. This is the first time Porter has been sick away from home. He feels downright awful and there's nobody to lean on. He misses his mom. He thinks about calling her, but it's the dead of the night and he doesn't want to wake her.

So he remains leaned over the trashcan, holding his sick belly with his mouth parted, as the nausea swirls in his gut. He's dizzy and shaky, and he doesn't feel like he's finished throwing up. A tear slips down his cheek as cramps overwhelm him. The smell is dreadful and it sends him into another cycle of productive retches.

During all of this he hears a knock on his door. It's Scott, coming to check on him. His concern briefly cuts through Porter's haze of discomfort. “Porter? You okay in there?” he says through the cheap wood. "When you're able to, come unlock the door, man."

The nausea is overwhelming him to the point that Porter's not able to say anything back right away. He coughs, then manages, "'Kay. Give me a minute." His voice is weak and he has doubts his response made it through the thin walls.

But it must have because Scott replies, "Take your time, man. Just want to make sure you're alright." He pauses. "Relatively speaking, anyway."

Porter spits a few more times into the bin. His stomach is still twisting painfully, but the nausea seems to be waning. For the time being, he thinks he's finished puking. Standing up to let Scott in seems like a herculean effort, but it's worth it to not feel so alone.

He crosses the room on unsteady legs and pulls open the door. Porter hangs onto the door handle, trying to stay upright as he greets him. "Hey," he breathes.

"Hey, man," Scott returns softly, eyebrows drawn up in sympathy as he looks Porter up and down. "Rough night?"

Porter shivers harshly, then murmurs, "Yeah, y-you could say that."

Scott reaches to the put the back of his hand on Porter's forehead. He tsks, indicating that he suspects a fever. That would explain the ache that Porter feels all the way down to his bones. "Let me help you back to bed," Scott offers and tucks his arm around Porter's waist.

Porter is seeing spots and he's grateful that Scott is guiding him back to bed. He's not sure he would've made it there under his own steam.

He falls back into his pillows and curls up, wrapping his arm around his aching stomach. "You didn't have to come over here, Keene," he says. He feels like it's important to acknowledge that. "I'll be alright."

"No offense, Jones, but you look pretty far from alright," Scott tells him, not unkindly. He grabs Porter's water bottle from his nightstand and gives it a little shake. It's nearly empty, so he goes to refill it at the sink. "Evan feels bad that he had to leave you."

Porter's heart sinks at that and he shakes his head. "He shouldn't. I know that he struggles with stuff like this. If he had stayed, we’d both be in bad shape. It’s better this way. I told him to go.”

"That's pretty admirable, you know that?" Scott asks him as he brings his filled water bottle back to the nightstand. He sets it down. "That you're able to put him first when you're feeling so lousy." Scott bends down to tie off the bag lining the trashcan. As he does, he ponders, "You know, I'm in awe of how much you guys on the team have each others' backs. It's something really special to witness."

"Witness?" Porter croaks, watching him. "You're a part of it, Keene. Hell, look at you right now. You're disposing of a barf bag that isn't even your own. If that doesn't scream 'having my back,' I don't know what does."

Scott smiles shyly at him. "It's no big thing," he tells Porter easily. He pulls out a fresh bag stowed at the bottom of the trashcan and shakes it out, replacing the soiled one with it.

"It is a big thing," Porter insists. "We're lucky to have you on the team, but beyond that, we're lucky to have you as a friend."

Scott's cheeks flush and he chuckles lightly. "You're sick, so I'm going to forgive you for being a total sap right now."

"You started it," Porter mumbles after him as Scott exits briefly to the designated area in the hallway to dispose of the soiled bag.

When he returns, it's to Porter hugging his belly as cramps ripple through him.

Scott winces sympathetically and nudges the fresh bin closer to him. "You okay?" he asks.

Porter's not. His stomach is in utter turmoil and he feels uncomfortable in his own skin. He just... really doesn't feel well.

"Haven't been sick like this in a long time," he says for an answer and lets out a shuddering breath. "It sucks."

"I know it does, man," Scott says. He wets a hand towel at the sink and brings it over to place on Porter's fevered brow.

Porter sighs gratefully. The cool cloth on his skin feels nice.

"You think you'll be able to go back to sleep?" Scott asks him. "You look exhausted."

Porter hopes so; his eyes are heavy with fatigue. He's just not sure his stomach will cooperate. "As long as my insides stay put," he mumbles.

"Yeah, that's the key," Scott says lightly. He kneels down beside the bed. "Do you want me to stay in here with you? I don't mind, and I'm sure it would make Evan feel better."

But Porter shakes his head. "No, man, that's okay. I don't want you to catch this. You should go back to yours."

Scott looks a little uncertain, but ultimately he agrees. "Okay, man," he relents. "But I'm turning my ringer on. You can call me if you need help, okay? I mean it."

Porter nods, feeling so cared for he can barely stand it. "Okay," he whispers. "Thanks, Scott."

Scott squeezes his shoulder comfortingly. "Make sure you drink some water in a little bit, okay?"

Porter makes a face, but nods.

Just then, there's another knock on the door. "I'll get it," Scott tells him.

It's Evan; he'd gone to the 24-hour convenience store to bring Porter some ginger ale and saltines. He keeps his distance, but hands the items over to Scott.

Porter smiles when Scott presents them to him. Evan always comes through for him in one way or another.

"I think you're all set now," Scott says, setting a can on the nightstand and a sleeve of saltines, too. He sticks the rest of the cans of ginger ale in the mini-fridge.

"Yeah, I think so," Porter says. "Tell Ev thanks for me, will you?"

"Sure, Jones. Get some rest, man."

Porter lets Scott pull the covers up over his trembling form and turn out the lights. He has a long night ahead as the virus that's plaguing him runs its course. But the support of his teammates, his friends, showing up in their own way, makes it almost seem worth it.

Chapter 37: Sir Pomfrey

Summary:

Characters: Phil Lammers, Scott Keene

Summary: The boys are excited to spend a rare snow day watching the Harry Potter films. But one of them starts feeling sick to his stomach as the day wears on.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

Phil and Scott are jolted awake one Tuesday morning by the insistent buzzing of their phones. Groggily, they each reach for their devices, eyes widening as they read the campus-wide alert.

"Dude!" Scott exclaims, sitting up in his bed. "Classes are cancelled!"

Phil rubs his eyes, a grin spreading across his face. "Looks like that snowstorm they were predicting really hit us hard."

Scott jumps out of bed and rushes to the window, pulling back the curtains. "Oh, wow!" he breathes. "Look at all that snow! It must have been coming down all night."

Phil joins him at the window, whistling low. "I've never seen the quad look so white. It's like a winter wonderland out there." His phone buzzes again and he glances briefly at the notification. "That was Coach. Swim practice is cancelled this afternoon, too," he tells Scott.

The pair stands in silence for a moment, taking in the serene beauty of the snow-covered campus. Then, Scott turns to Phil with a mischievous glint in his eye. "You know what this means, right?" he asks.

Phil raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"Harry Potter marathon!" Scott declares triumphantly.

Phil's face lights up. "Oh man, that's perfect! We've been talking about doing that for ages."

"We've got the whole day free," Scott says, barely able to contain his excitement. "No classes, no practice, no responsibilities..."

Phil nods enthusiastically. "Let's do it! I'll set up the TV and get the movies ready."

"I'll get the snacks!" Scott volunteers.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Soon, they're settled in and letting out contented sighs. This is exactly how they wanted to spend their unexpected day off. They're lounging side-by-side on their futon, covered in blankets. It's peak happiness.

The first movie flies by in a blur of nostalgia. As The Chamber of Secrets begins, Scott notices that Phil hasn't touched any of the snacks.

"Hey, you okay?" Scott asks, nudging his friend. "You haven't eaten anything."

Phil shrugs. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just not very hungry, I guess."

"The human landfill isn't hungry?" Scott asks, his eyebrows raised.

Phil just shrugs again.

Scott frowns slightly but doesn't push the issue. As they continue watching, he can't help but notice that Phil seems increasingly uncomfortable, shifting in his seat and not chattering excitedly as he usually does during the movies they watch together.

Partway through The Prisoner of Azkaban, Scott pauses the movie when Phil lets out a grunt and shifts again. "Seriously, man, are you feeling alright?" he asks him. "You look a little pale."

Phil hesitates before answering, embarrassed. "I guess my stomach's feeling a bit off," he admits. "Sorry. I think I'm gonna run to the bathroom real quick. You can keep watching."

"You sure?"

Phil nods his head as he stands up. "Yeah. I'll be right back."

Scott chews on his lower lip as he waits for Phil to return. He's only gone a few minutes, but when he reenters the dorm room he looks worse than when he left. His face is ashen, and he's moving gingerly as if every step is expending all of his energy.

"Phil," Scott says, his voice laced with concern. "You really don't look too good, man. Did you throw up?"

Phil shakes his head and eases himself back onto the futon. "No. I think I'm fine now, really. Let's keep watching."

Scott reluctantly presses play; there's only half an hour or so left in the third movie, so Scott tells himself to reassess his friend's condition when it concludes.

When the credits roll, Scott looks over at Phil and isn't surprised to find that he has fallen asleep. Scott's heart sinks; his roommate is obviously not well. Phil's head is lolled back at an awkward angle. It looks uncomfortable.

"Phil?" Scott says softly. When he gets no response, he gently places a hand on Phil's forehead. It's warm to the touch.

The contact causes Phil to stir. "Hmm? Did I fall asleep?" he croaks groggily, blinking slowly.

"Yeah, you did," Scott replies. "And you feel hot, man. I think you've got a fever."

Phil shivers, then swallows hard. His bleary eyes meet Scott's. "M'sorry, Keene," he mumbles. "I don't know what's up with me today, but I'm definitely not feeling 100%."

"You don't have to apologize for not feeling good," Scott tells him easily. "Why don't you move to your bed? I think you need to sleep."

Phil pouts a little. "Yeah," he agrees. "But the marathon..."

"Hey, we made a good dent," Scott says. "And the day is still young. We'll take a nap and if we feel like starting the next one when we wake up, we will. But no pressure, alright? I think some sleep might do you some good."

"I am really tired..." Phil mumbles, eyeing his bed longingly. "But only if you're sure."

"I'm sure. I'm a little tired, too," Scott lies to reassure his friend. "And you know I love naps."

Phil smiles slightly. "Okay," he relents, and stands up. "Thanks, man."

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scott sleeps for about an hour before he wakes. Phil is still sound asleep and Scott has a feeling he's going to stay that way for a while. So Scott quietly settles at his desk with his biology textbook, deciding to get ahead on his reading for the week.

He listens to Phil's light breathing and takes notes as he goes. He watches the snow continue to fall outside of his window.

Nearly two hours later, there's a loud knock on their door, and then some guys from the swim team shout, "Lammers! Keene! Snowball fight in the quad!" They drumroll on the door. "Be there or be square!" And then they're gone.

Obviously, their racket causes Phil to stir and he sits up, groaning softly.

"Hey," Scott greets him.

Awareness comes to Phil in stages. "Hey," he replies and rubs his face. "Did I hear something about a snowball fight?"

"Yeah, apparently some of the guys are heading out to the quad."  

"Oh." Phil swallows audibly. "H-How long was I out?"

"Almost three hours," Scott answers. "How're you feeling?"

Phil has already dropped his hands to wrap his arms around his belly.  "Um... not very good," he says honestly. He licks his lips and swallows again. "I'm... I'm pretty sure puking might be in my future."

At that, Scott jumps up to grab the trashcan by the door; he brings it over to him.

"Thanks," Phil mumbles, taking it wearily. He sets it down on the floor. "But I think I'm just gonna go camp out in the bathroom for a while."

Scott's brow furrows with worry. He understands that Phil is a private and prideful person when it comes to being sick, just as most people are, but he's looking so rough that Scott feels uneasy about letting him out of his sight. "Do you want me to come with you?"

Phil shakes his head, clearly embarrassed. "No, no. I'll be alright." But he says it weakly and Scott isn't convinced. "I don't want you to have to deal with... this."

"Are you sure?" Scott presses. "I really don't mind."

"I'm sure," Phil insists.

"Okay..." Scott relents. "But take your phone. And keep me posted, okay?"

Phil nods as he stands up on trembling legs. "Okay," he agrees. "Thanks, Keene."

As Phil shuffles out of the room, Scott feels a knot of worry form in his own stomach. He tries to return to his studies, but he can't focus. His mind keeps wandering to Phil, wondering if he's okay.

Scott also has a tendency to constantly think about worst-case scenarios, and while Phil is likely battling a run-of-the-mill stomach bug, even stomach bugs can turn sinister and lead to dangerous dehydration that require medical attention. So, naturally, Scott is worried about what would happen if Phil gets there. Getting him help would be difficult since they're snowed in. And now Scott finds himself cursing the snow instead of relishing in it.

~*~*~*~*~*~

After what feels like an eternity, Scott's phone buzzes with a text from Phil: I threw up. Still really nauseous. Probably gonna be down here for a while.

Scott's heart absolutely aches for his friend. He quickly texts back: I'm so sorry, man. That sucks. Is there anything I can do?

Phil's reply comes a few minutes later: Don't think so. Just gotta wait it out.

Scott hates not being able to help, but he decides the one thing he can do is try to distract his friend from how dreadful he's feeling. So he scrolls reddit and unearths some good Harry Potter memes to send his way.

He knows they're appreciated when Phil "likes" them. He even sends a couple back.

When there's a lull in Phil's responses, Scott asks: You okay?

And when he still has no reply after 15 minutes, he calls him.

Thankfully, Phil picks up. "Hey, sorry, I think I dozed off for a bit," he says weakly. "I feel like shit, Keene."

"I know you do, man," Scott says sympathetically. "Have you thrown up again?"

"No. But I feel like I'm going to."

Scott sighs. "Why don't you come back to the room? We can set you up with the trashcan and some water. You'll be more comfortable in here. And you should have someone looking after you."

There's a long pause before Phil responds. "You sure? Don't want to gross you out..."

Scott almost laughs at that. "I'm pre-med, Phil. Nothing grosses me out."

"Okay. I'm coming."

~*~*~*~*~*~

A few minutes later, Phil shuffles back into the room. He looks absolutely miserable, his face pale and drawn, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Scott jumps up to help him back to his bed.

As he sits down on the edge of his bed, Phil says, "Sorry for totally ruining the snow-"

He breaks off suddenly, gagging hard, and a hand flies up to his mouth, eyes wide with panic.

Quickly and composed, Scott positions the trash can in front of him and helps Phil lean over it because, yeah, this is definitely happening. Phil's body is visibly shaking as he starts to retch. Within seconds, the contents of his stomach erupt forcefully, splashing into the bin with a sickening sound.

Scott places a steadying hand on his friend's back, offering silent support as he rides through the episode. As it fizzles out, Phil gasps for air, his face contorted in discomfort. He presses a palm into his very sick, wrung out belly and and spits the remaining juices from his mouth into the bin.

"Ugh," he moans, and slumps back into his pillows, utterly exhausted. He's trembling from the exertion and closes his eyes, trying to regain his composure. "Sorry," he says again.

"Stop apologizing," Scott tells him gently. He reaches to push a strand of sweaty hair that had fallen in front of Phil's eyes out of the way. "You're okay."

"Bet you regret telling me to come back to the room now," Phil says hoarsely as he watches Scott replace the soiled bag from the trashcan with a fresh one.

"Not at all, man," Scott says easily. He quickly leaves the room to dispose of the soiled bag in the designated spot in the hallway, then returns to dampen a washcloth and bring Phil a bottle of water. He helps Phil under his covers and positions the damp cloth on his forehead. "You want to rinse your mouth out?" he asks, offering the water bottle.

Phil shakes his head, almost imperceptibly; his fatigue is obviously amplified.

Scott places it on their shared nightstand then scoots the trashcan closer in case Phil needs it again. "Is there anything else you need right now?" Scott asks.

Phil shakes his head. "No, this is good. Thanks, Scott."

Scott smiles softly, a Harry Potter reference coming to mind. "Just call me Sir Pomfrey."

"I'll only call you that if you have a potion or a spell that magically heals me within seconds."

"Alas, I do not," Scott tells him.

Phil sighs. "Guess that's the price we pay for being muggles." He lets out a deep breath and Scott can feel the unfinished apology coming. "I really am sorry about ruining the snow day, Keene."

Scott sits down on the foot of Phil's bed. "You didn't ruin anything, man. Everything happens for a reason. If we had class, I wouldn't have been here to look after you. And if you were healthy, I'm sure you would have convinced my nonathletic ass to participate in that snowball fight."

Phil snorts softly at that. "Yeah, I totally would've." He meets Scott's eyes meaningfully. "Thanks," he says sincerely. "I'm... I'm really lucky to have you as a roommate, Scott."

"Likewise," Scott says genuinely as he stands up.

One thing he really admires about Phil is that he tells people that he loves and appreciates them. He's not afraid to do it, like so many people - guys - are. And Scott has been learning how to reciprocate. It's definitely not as natural as Phil makes it seem, but he's getting there.

He pats Phil's leg before heading back to his own bed. "Get some rest, man. Holler if you need me."

Chapter 38: sleepless solidarity

Summary:

Characters: Dean Sutton, Jason Rhodes

Summary: True friends never clock out.

Author's Note: This was written for sicktember 2025's first prompt: “It’s the middle of the night, why are you up?”

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

Jason is a light sleeper, so it’s not really surprising that he’s pulled from sleep to the sound of a loud clatter in the middle of the night.

He isn’t immediately sure where the sound came from, but he knows that it didn’t come from his bedroom.  So he slips out of bed to go inspect.

He discovers pretty quickly that the noise came from the front room.  He can hear the faint sound of the TV playing, and can see the glow from it down the hall.

Dean must be up.

Frowning, Jason walks down the hall to check on his roommate.  They have swim practice in less than three hours, so it’s a little weird for Dean to be up and sacrificing precious sleep to watch TV.

Jason has a feeling that something is wrong.

He finds Dean curled up in a blanket on the couch, blinking dazedly at the TV.  He has an episode of Suits playing softly.

Jason taps on the doorframe to let him know he’s there.  “Hey, Dean,” he says quietly.  He flips on the light.

Dean falters a bit at the light, then squints his eyes to look at him.  “Hey, Jace,” he says tiredly.

Jason yawns.  “It’s the middle of the night, why are you up?”  He eyes the remote on the floor and deduces that it was the culprit of the loud clatter.  It must’ve fallen from the armrest of the couch. Jason also notices the trash bin from their shared bathroom on the floor, close to Dean’s head.  He winces.  “Are you okay?”

Dean really looks unwell.  He’s pale and trembling under their heaviest throw blanket.

“M’not feeling too hot,” Dean mumbles.  “Did I wake you up?”

“Yeah, but don’t sweat it, man.  I don’t mind.” He folds his arms across his chest, feeling awkward.  And concerned.  Dean isn’t one to outright admit when he’s not feeling well.  He tends to have a bad habit of trying to muscle through.  “What’s going on?”

Dean shrugs.  “Stomach’s a mess,” he says feebly.  “Definitely caught a bug or something.”

“Yeah, you look a bit peaked.” Jason tells him.  He regards the trash bin.  “Have you thrown up?”

Dean shakes his head.  “Not yet,” he breathes.  “Pretty sure it’s in my not-so-distant future, though.”  He lets out a shaky breath.  “I woke up feeling like my insides were liquifying,” he goes on to explain.  “Had to make a mad dash to the toilet.  I kinda destroyed our bathroom.  Sorry.”

Jason crinkles his nose.  “You’re always so good at painting a vivid picture,” he says.  “But that’s okay, man.  Shit happens.”

Dean snorts weakly at that.  “Literally.”  He swallows hard.  “Don’t worry, I cleaned the toilet after I was done.  Don’t want you catching this.”

“You cleaned the toilet,” Jason repeats, staring at his roommate in awe.  “When you’re sicker than a dog?”  Dean always puts others before his own well-being, so Jason really shouldn’t be fazed, but he’s always taken aback by Dean’s altruism nonetheless.

“It’s just a bug,” Dean says.  “It’s not like I’m dying.”

“Your complexion suggests otherwise,” Jason retorts, not unkindly.  He crosses the room so he can put the back of his hand on Dean’s forehead.  The heat he finds there is nothing short of alarming.  “You’re burning up, dude.”

Dean sighs.  “I know.”

“Did you check your temp?” Jason asks.

“Seemed like too much effort.”

Jason rolls his eyes at that.  “Right, it’s much harder than scrubbing the toilet,” he says sarcastically.

“Do we even have a thermometer?” Dean asks.

“Yeah, there’s one in that first aid kit your mom gave us when we moved in.” Jason enlightens him.  Dean’s mom is a nurse, so she had made sure they were aptly stocked up with all things medical.  “It’s in the bathroom.  I’ll go grab it.”

“Oh,” Dean mumbles after him. “Thanks.”

When Jason returns, Dean has pushed himself up into the seated position and is leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands.

“Here, man,” Jason says, handing the oral device over to his friend.

Dean takes it sluggishly and sticks it under his tongue.

As they wait to get a reading, Jason goes into the kitchen to wet a cool cloth and get Dean a glass of water.  As he returns, the thermometer beeps.

“Look at that timing.” Jason sets the glass down on the end table. He drapes the cloth over the glass.  “What’s it say?”

Dean is blinking down at the device dazedly.  “Um… one hundred and—” he breaks off before he can finish reporting the number, his face paling even further.  He brings his free hand up to his mouth in a fist, and mutters, resignedly, “Uh…  I’m about t-to puke.”

Jason had already recognized that and calmly says, “Okay.  That’s alright.”  He reaches to take the thermometer out of Dean’s hand and sets it on the end table with the other items. Then he nudges the trash bin in front of his sick friend and settles in on the couch beside him, helping him lean over the receptacle.

It’s over fairly quickly.  Dean is so ill that the liquid just gushes out of him without him needing to strain much at all.  Even still, it looks dreadful; Dean is barely able to get a breath in between waves. It turns Jason’s own stomach witnessing the sheer force and volume of it all.

But then it’s over, and Dean is just panting over the bin, spitting the remnants of bile and saliva into its depths.

“God, I h-hate throwing up,” he says shakily when he has some of his breath back.  “Sorry, Jace.”

“It’s okay,” Jason assures him.  “Just take a second to collect yourself, bro.  That was brutal.”  He reaches to brush Dean’s sweaty hair out of his eyes.  “You want to lean back?”

Dean nods, so Jason nudges him back into the cushions. Then he offers him the damp cloth so he can wipe his face and cool off.  He also offers the water, but Dean just shakes his head.

Jason, still curious about the extent of Dean’s fever, glances at the thermometer.  The display has gone dark.  “What was your temp again?” he asks.

Dean meets his eyes blearily.  “102.6,” he croaks.

Jason whistles lowly.  “Damn.  Okay.  That’s pretty high, man.  Need to keep an eye on that.”

Dean shrugs.  “I’ll live,” he says, rather casually for just expelling his innards.  But that’s just Dean: he’s really freaking tough.  “Sorry again for getting you up,” he tells Jason.

Jason waves him off as he stands to tie up the used liner in the bin. “Quit apologizing,” he says, meeting Dean’s eyes sincerely.  “I mean it.”

“But you have to leave for practice in, like, what… two hours?”

Jason shrugs.  “Yeah.  So?”

“So, I’m interrupting your very precious opportunity to sleep.”

“Gee, you’re right.  Let me just ignore you puking your guts out while I catch some zzz’s.”  Jason tosses a throw pillow at Dean to emphasize just how ridiculous he’s being.

Dean huffs a weak laugh at that and hugs the pillow against his aching stomach.

“Besides, you’d do it for me,” Jason adds.  “Hell, you have done it for me.”  He takes the soiled bag, then sticks it outside their front door to be dealt with later.

“You at least had the decency to puke in the daytime,” Dean mumbles when he returns. “I’ve never lost sleep on account of your rebelling stomach.”

“Well, I think you’ve lost enough sleep on account of your own rebelling stomach,” Jason says.  “Look, I swear I’ll crash a little more before practice, but let me help you get settled first.  The only way I’ll be able to fall back asleep is if I know you’re all good, okay?”

Dean sighs.  “Okay,” he finally allows, softly.

“Okay,” Jason echoes.  “You want to go back to your bed?  Might be a little more comfortable.”

Their couch was gifted to them from Jason’s parents.  It was the couch they’d had ever since Jason was a kid, so it’s pretty worn and lumpy.

“Mhm,” Dean affirms, but he makes no effort to move.

“I’ll help you,” Jason says, offering his hand for Dean to take.  “C’mon.”

He guides Dean down the hall, one arm wrapped securely around his back. Dean leans into him, not quite limp, but close. His breaths are coming in uneven, shallow pulls from the exertion. He keeps his head low and focuses on walking straight.

They make it to the bedroom, and Jason helps him ease down onto the bed. Dean drops into the pillows with a quiet groan, one arm slung over his eyes. Jason pulls his comforter up to his chest and tucks it around him.

“Thanks,” Dean mumbles.

Jason squeezes his shoulder, then heads back out to the TV room to retrieve the trash bin.  He takes it to the bathroom to replace the liner and grabs a bottle of Tylenol from the first aid kit, too.  He returns to Dean’s bedroom.

Dean watches him as he places the Tylenol on the nightstand and the bin on the floor beside his bed.

Jason leaves the room once more to go get the cool cloth, the glass of water, and the thermometer that had been left in the TV room. 

Dean’s eyes have slipped closed when he returns.  Jason sets the water and thermometer down, then places the cool cloth on Dean’s forehead.

“You can try the Tylenol later, once your stomach settles,” he says, his voice low.

Dean shifts slightly, cracking open his eyes. “Appreciate it, man.”

Jason pulls his phone out of his sweatpants pocket to shoot a quick text to Coach Jennings, letting him know that Dean sick.  He doesn’t expect Coach to answer at this hour, but at least he’ll be in the know for when he wakes up.

“You’re off the hook for practice,” Jason reports, re-pocketing his phone.

“Bless you,” Dean mutters sincerely.

“Coach’ll probably want you to check in with Erin at some point later today,” Jason says.  Erin is the athletic trainer, and it’s the team’s policy for sick athletes to check in with her if they need to miss practice.  “I’ll let you know what he says.”

“‘Kay,” Dean breathes.

Jason can tell that sleep is starting to pull him under. “Anything else you need?” he asks.

Dean hums a negative.  “Think m’good.”

“Okay, man.  I’ll check on you before I leave.  Holler if you need anything.”

Jason starts to head to the door and he’s not at all surprised when Dean manages one more thank you before exhaustion wins out.  “Thanks again, Jace.”

“Anytime, man.  I’ve got you,” Jason says in reply as he flips out the light.

And as Jason drifts back off to sleep, he takes a moment to appreciate his friendship with Dean.  They’ve had each others’ backs more times than he can count.  He recognizes how special that is.

We’ve got each other.

Chapter 39: just a cold

Summary:

Characters: Evan Guthrie, Porter Jones, Phil Lammers, Scott Keene

Summary: Spoiler: it's not just a cold.

Author's Note: This was written for @sicktember 2025's fourth prompt: pneumonia

⚠️ Content warnings: hospitalization, difficulty breathing, vomiting

Evan has been coughing for days.

It started out pretty mild.  It’s the middle of winter, so everyone is exhausted, rundown, and doing their best to keep their immune systems intact.  At first, Evan claimed that it was just a cold.

But by midweek, the cough had gotten worse: deep, grating, and relentless. Even still, he kept going to class, still showed up at swim practice, still muttered “I’m fine” every time someone asked. He didn’t have a fever - or at least, not one he acknowledged - and kept claiming it was a cold.

Porter tries to be sympathetic about it, but after the fourth night of being kept awake, his patience is starting to wear thin.  He hasn’t been able to sleep for more than two hours at a time.

“Dude, you’re kind of dragging today,” Phil tells him in the locker room before practice on Thursday afternoon.  “You good?”

Porter sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose.  “Evan has a bad cough.  It’s been keeping me up.”

Phil grimaces.  “Oh, yeah, I’ve heard it,” he says.  “Has he seen Erin about it?

Porter shakes his head.  “Don’t think so.  He says it’s just a cold.”

“Well, hey, if you need to catch some decent sleep, our futon’s always open,” Phil offers.

“I might just have to take you up on that,” Porter says.

~*~*~*~*~*~

At practice that day, Evan can’t stop coughing during the main set.  He’s practically choking, to the point where he misses his send-off, and Coach Jennings whistles at him to get out of the pool.  Porter can’t hear what Coach Jennings is saying, but he pats Evan on the back until he regains control, then motions to the trainer’s office.

Good, Porter thinks as he pushes off the wall.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Evan doesn’t show up at weights, which means Erin had benched him for the night.

Porter calls him after to see if he wants him to bring him something back from the dining hall.

“No thanks.  I’m not very hungry.”

“Okay,” Porter says, frowning a little bit at that. He decides to pick him up some soup, anyway.  “What did Erin say?”

He has to wait through another coughing fit to hear the answer.

“She set up an appointment for me to see Dr. Anderson tomorrow,” Evan tells him, once he gets his breath back. “Apparently I’m running bit of a fever, so she’s not convinced it’s a cold.”

“None of us are convinced it’s a cold, man,” Porter tells him bluntly.  “Except for you.”

Evan sighs.  “Yeah, I guess it could be something else.  I’m feeling a little more wrecked today.  Haven’t been sleeping much.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Porter says, before he can stop himself.  His eyes widen and he quickly apologizes.  “Sorry, man, I shouldn’t’ve said that.”

“No, it’s okay.  I know I’ve been keeping you up.  M’sorry.”

“It’s not like you can help it,” he says.  The last thing he wants to do is make Evan feel bad for something beyond his control.  “But Phil did offer their futon to me tonight.  I might take him up on it.  Is that okay?”

“Yeah, ‘course it is.  I’d probably do the same if I was in your boat.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

So that’s how Porter ends up crashing in Phil and Scott’s room that night, wrapped in a too-small blanket on their lumpy futon, feeling mildly guilty but mostly just desperate for rest.

He’d stopped by his room to give Evan the soup and to pack an overnight bag.  Then he hightailed it out of there, telling Evan to call him if he needed anything.  Porter was so tired he was ready to hit the hay at 7pm.

Phil and Scott had planned to study for a bit at the library, so Porter has their room to himself.  He falls asleep almost instantly, lulled by the hum of the box fan.  He’s dead to world and doesn’t even hear Phil and Scott return.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Porter is awakened by his phone vibrating underneath his pillow.  He was sleeping so hard that it takes him a moment to remember where he is.  He blinks down at his phone, and his heart jumps when he realizes it’s Evan calling.

He sits up, blinking against the darkness. He makes note of the time: 2:47am.

“Evan?” Porter answers, trying to keep his voice low in an effort to not wake Phil and Scott.  He sits up, his heart starting to hammer. “You okay?”  

There’s coughing on the other end, harsh and barking.  Then wheezing, like Evan is trying to breathe through a straw.  “Porter?” he manages.  “C-Can you come back?” he sounds desperate.  Scared.  “I-I don’t feel right.  It’s—” he breaks off with another coughing fit. “It’s hard t-to breathe.”

Porter is wide awake now. “Yeah, I’m coming,” he says, already grabbing his hoodie and shoes. “Hang in there, buddy.”

Phil and Scott start stirring at his movement.  “What’s going on?”

“It’s Evan,” Porter tells them, panic lacing his voice as he hastily ties his shoes. “He can’t breathe.”

That gets both Phil and Scott moving immediately.

They can hear Evan coughing as they hurry down the hallway to his room.  It's a wet, painful sound, punctuated by gasping breaths.

“He sounds awful,” Scott mutters as Porter fumbles with his keys.

Once inside, they find Evan sitting up on his bed, feet on the floor, clutching his chest.  His face is flushed and damp with sweat and his cough is so violent that it nearly folds him in half.

“Oh my gosh,” Porter says, rushing to his side. “Evan—hey, hey, settle down, okay? Try to relax.”

Evan leans his head against Porter’s shoulder, chest heaving and seeking comfort.  “I-I can’t,” he mumbles.  “My chest…”

Scott kneels down in front of them.  “Evan, can you look at me?” he asks gently.

Evan does, trying to stifle his coughs. His gaze is unfocused and glassy.

Scott reaches out and touches Evan’s forehead, then his wrist. “His fever’s insane,” he mutters.  “And his breathing is way too shallow. We need to get him to a hospital.”

He says it calmly, but Porter’s stomach still fills with dread.

“Should I call Dean?” Phil asks.

Scott shakes his head.  “No, call Campus Safety.  They’re patrolling.  It’ll be faster.”

Phil nods, already dialing.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Porter and Scott help Evan get downstairs; Porter has one arm around his back while Scott guides him gently by the elbow. Phil is walking ahead to open doors for them, while staying on the line with Campus Safety.

Evan is still wheezing, each breath sounding like it’s scraping his lungs raw. When they reach the bottom of the stairs, he stumbles, and Porter has to catch him around the waist.

“Almost there, man,” Porter murmurs. “Just a few more steps.”

They guide him to a bench near the front of the dorm, carefully lowering him onto it. He slumps forward, arms braced on his knees, coughing so violently it sounds like it might tear something inside of him. His whole body is trembling with the effort to breathe.

“You’re okay,” Porter says, crouching beside him. “You’re okay, we’re right here.”

Then Evan coughs again, harder than before, his whole frame convulsing. He doubles over with a wheeze, and this time the fit ends with a wet retching sound. He vomits between his feet, splattering the sidewalk with a sick mixture of bile and mucus.

Porter’s heart jumps. Evan has always been emetophobic, terrified of throwing up. He braces for a breakdown, for panic, for some sign that Evan is about to lose it.

But Evan barely seems to register it. He just slumps forward, drool trailing from his mouth, arms braced on his knees as he fights for each breath.

“Shit,” Porter whispers; he settles in on the seat beside Evan, rubbing gentle circles in his friend’s back. “Evan, hey. Can you hear me?”

Evan nods faintly and sits back to lean against Porter, gasping. His entire body is quaking.

“Okay, you’re okay."

“Porter, here.”

Porter drops his arm so Scott can wrap Evan’s coat around his shoulders.  He’d had the foresight to grab it on their way down.  

“He’s in rough shape,” Scott murmurs. “They need to get here soon.”

Phil jogs back over from the curb. “They’re two minutes out.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Porter?  You alright?”

Phil’s voice breaks into Porter’s inner turmoil.  They’re in the waiting room of the ER, waiting to hear an update. Evan had been whisked away by medical professionals as soon as they arrived.

Porter feels like crying.  No, he isn't alright.  “I shouldn’t have left him tonight,” he says, guilt dripping from his voice.  “I knew he was sicker than he was letting on. I just… I was so tired.”

“Porter, c’mon, man.  This isn’t on you,” Phil says gently.  “You checked on him, you brought him soup, you made sure he knew you’d come back if he needed you. And you did come back. The second he called.”

“He shouldn’t have had to call,” Porter mutters mournfully. “I should’ve been there. Maybe I could’ve gotten him help sooner.”

“No one knew it was going to get this bad,” Scott tells him. “I don’t think Evan even knew.”  He puts a comforting hand on Phil’s knee.  “He told you to go. He said it was okay.”

“Yeah,” Phil echoes.  “And the important thing is, he’s getting the help he needs now.”

Porter sniffs and looks down at his hands.  He wants to believe what they’re saying.  “I just…” he lets out a shuddering breath.  “I just need him to be okay.”

“He will be,” Phil says confidently.  He squeezes Porter’s shoulder and stands up from his chair.  “I’m going to call Coach,” he says.  “Let him know what’s going on.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

A nurse comes to update them about an hour later, though it feels more like an eternity.

“You all are friends of Evan Guthrie, correct?”

“Yes,” they all chorus.  “How is he?”

The nurse gives a small, tired smile. “He’s stable.  He gave us permission to update you on his condition. He has pneumonia - a pretty bad case. His oxygen levels were low, so we’ve got him on a nasal cannula for now and we’ve started him on IV antibiotics and fluids. He’s already breathing easier, which is a good sign.”

Porter exhales audibly, with breath he didn’t know he was holding. “So… he’s going to be okay?”

“He’ll likely need a few days in the hospital, but yes, he should recover just fine. He’ll be tired for a while, but he’s young and healthy otherwise. We’re admitting him to a room now.”

“Will we be able to see him?” Scott inquires.

“Yes, in a few moments.  I can come and get you when it’s time.”

“Thank you,” Phil tells her sincerely.

~*~*~*~*~*~

They’re quiet after the nurse leaves; a combination of exhaustion, relief, and coming down from an adrenaline rush. Porter leans back against the wall and scrubs his hands over his face. His chest still feels tight, but he can breathe a little easier. Evan is going to be okay.

That’s all that matters.

Fifteen minutes later, the nurse returns. “You can come back now, if you’d like. He’s in Room 312. He’s awake, but a little groggy.”

They follow her down a quiet hallway, their footsteps soft against the linoleum floor. It smells like antiseptic and faintly of coffee. Porter’s heart pounds as they walk. He just wants to see for himself that Evan is really okay.

When they reach the door, the nurse gives a gentle knock before pushing it open. “You’ve got company, Evan,” she says with a warm smile, then steps aside.

The boys file in.

Evan is sitting up, the head of his bed elevated with him propped against pillows, a thin tube tucked under his nose delivering oxygen. He looks pale and wrung-out, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. There’s a monitor beeping quietly beside him and an IV drip hooked to his arm.

But he smiles when he sees them.

“Hey,” he rasps, voice hoarse and low.

“Hey, man,” Porter says, crossing the room first. He grabs the side rail of the bed, looking down at him, a lump of emotion forming in his throat. “You scared the crap out of me.”

“I know,” Evan murmurs. “Scared myself… a little, too.”

Porter gives a watery laugh. “Well, don’t do it again, okay?”

“Mm. Roger that,” Evan says, then starts coughing.

Thankfully, he’s able to regain control fairly quickly, but he reaches up to rub at his chest.

“You okay?” Porter asks as Phil and Scott move in behind him.  He notices a cup of water on Evan’s bedside tray and offers it to him.

“Yeah,” Evan says, and takes the water.  “Thanks.”  Then he acknowledges Scott and Phil.  “Hey, guys.  Sorry for… dragging you… into this.”

They brush him off, of course. “Not at all, man,” Scott says.  “We’re just glad we were able to get you some help.”

Phil hums in agreement.  “I talked to Coach.  He’s on his way to come see you.  He said he was going to contact your parents, too.”

Evan nods.  “‘Kay.  Thanks,” he mutters.  He sighs dejectedly. “Guess I’m benched for a while.”

Porter snorts a little at that.  “You think?”

“Yeah,” Phil says.  Then to bring some light to the situation he says, “You know, Guthrie, the next time you want some time off, maybe go a less dramatic route, okay?”

Evan grins shyly at all of them.  “Yeah, sure.  I’ll keep that in mind.”

Chapter 40

Summary:

Characters: Scott Keene, Phil Lammers

Summary: Phil always comes through for him.

Author's Note: This was written for @sicktember 2025's fifth prompt: worst possible timing.

⚠️ Content warnings: vomiting

Phil is really nervous.

It’s Saturday morning, and it’s the first day of Christmas training.

Finals had wrapped up the day prior, and the majority of students on campus had headed home for the holidays.

But not the swimmers.

The swimmers stay on campus to train over winter break. Two weeks of tough and grueling practices before the final push into championships.

From what Phil has heard from his returning teammates, it’s utter hell.

“We usually start off with 30x100s, best stroke,” Dean had told him. “Coach’ll give us goal times. I’d be willing to bet my arm and leg that’s the set we do.”

Needless to say, Phil is not looking forward to practice this morning, and as a result, he’s kind of dragging his feet. He just doesn’t want to get out of bed.

Meanwhile, Scott had volunteered to work a Santa meet-and-greet through their church off-campus. A three-hour window for kids to come sit on Santa’s lap to tell him what they want for Christmas.

And Scott had offered to be Santa, which Phil finds hilarious. He’s currently taking a shower in the co-ed bathrooms, but his Santa suit is laid out on his bed.

Phil definitely isn’t leaving for practice until he gets photo evidence of Scott wearing it.

He sighs and pushes himself out of bed. He grabs a banana and a protein bar to eat on his walk to practice. Then he starts getting his swim bag together.

As he does, Scott returns to the room, towel wrapped around his waist.

“Mornin’, Mr. Claus,” Phil greets him.

“Hey,” Scott says quietly. He sniffs. Keeping his head down, he goes to sit on the edge of his bed.

Phil frowns. He thought he’d get at least a smile out of his greeting. He watches as Scott pulls on his boxers and Santa pants.

He’s moving slowly, and Phil swears his breath is hitching a little. Is he crying?

“Scott?” he says gently. “You okay?”

Scott sniffs again, louder this time. “Yeah. M’fine. M’fine.” He says it like he’s trying to convince himself. He pulls on his undershirt.

Phil doesn’t buy it. Scott’s voice sounds weak. Thin. “Are you sure?” He takes a few steps closer and helps Scott thread his arms through Santa’s coat.

“Don’t you have to get to practice?” Scott says for an answer. He’s trying to deflect, and now Phil knows something isn’t right. Scott reaches around Phil for his glasses on his nightstand, then pulls on his Santa hat. “Thought you’d b-be gone by now.”

Phil shrugs. “Takin’ my time this morning.” He glances at the clock on his nightstand. He’ll have to leave in ten minutes to get to practice on time. But first he has to figure out what’s up with Scott. “So, are you gonna tell me what’s wrong? You’re crying.”

Scott wipes at his eyes and his posture deflates. “I-It’s stupid. I don’t know why I’m crying,” he says, curling an arm around his middle. “I just... I-I really don’t feel good, and this is the worst possible time for me to be sick and—”

“You don’t feel good?” Phil interrupts, reaching out to put a comforting hand on the elbow of the arm that’s cradling Scott’s stomach. “Your stomach?” he assumes.

“Yeah,” Scott breathes and more tears spill out of his eyes. “I came this close to puking in the shower...” he holds up his thumb and index finger with a minuscule gap between the pads of the fingertips. Then he backs up to sit back down on his bed. His legs are trembling.

“Dude...” Phil says sympathetically. Scott looks positively gray, save for the flush in his cheeks. “What’re you gonna do?”

“What do you mean what am I gonna do?” Scott asks weakly. “I can’t just not show up. They’re expecting over 100 kids to come meet Santa.”

“You can’t go like this,” Phil tries to reason with him. He takes a seat beside Scott and reaches up to feel his forehead. He grimaces at the heat under his palm. “Dude, you’re on fire.”

Scott’s lower lip wobbles. “But the kids—”

“I’ll go,” Phil tells him, without giving it a second thought. “I’ll go in your place.”

Scott blinks his bleary eyes at him. “You have practice.”

“Maybe Coach will let me miss. Let me give him a call.”

“I can’t let you do that—” Scott starts.

But Phil is already commanding Siri to call Coach Jennings. He holds up a finger to tell Scott to be quiet.

Scott bites down on his lower lip and folds further into himself. Phil nudges the trashcan over to him. “Just in case, okay?” he says while the line rings.

“Hey, Lammers, what’s up?” Coach answers.

“Hey, Coach. Sorry to call you when you’re on your way in.”

“That’s okay, son. What’s going on?”

“Um... So you know how I’m roommates with Scott Keene?”

“Sure, the kid that’s been shadowing Erin a few times a week.”

“Right. Well, he wasn’t planning on coming in today because he volunteered to play Santa for a meet-and-greet through our church...” Phil trails off when he sees Scott pull the trashcan closer to himself, clearly anticipating being sick. He takes in a deep breath. “Anyway, he woke up really sick this morning. He’s running a fever and is really sick to his stomach and—” Phil breaks off with a grimace when Scott suddenly vomits into the bin and nearly pitches forward off the bed. “Oh, shit,” Phil mutters and leaps to catch him, effectively dropping his phone on the floor in the process. “I got you man,” he tells Scott, and pulls his hips further back from the edge of the bed to allow for a wider base of support. He sits down next to his ailing friend and pulls the Santa hat off him. “You okay?”

“Nnh,” Scott moans and throws up again.

Keeping one hand on Scott’s back for comfort, Phil stretches to reach for his phone. “Coach, you still there? Sorry.”

“Yeah, I’m here,” Coach answers. “Let me tell you, this has got to be the most elaborate ploy to get out of practice I think I’ve ever heard...”

“It’s not a ploy, I swear,” Phil says defensively, his stomach dropping. Maybe Jennings isn’t going to be as cool about this as he thought. “And how’d you know I was going to ask to miss practice?”

Coach Jennings chuckles on the other end. “I know it’s not a ploy, Lammers. I’m just giving you a hard time. Is Scott okay? That sounded... rough.”

Phil breathes out a sigh of relief. “Yeah, he’ll be okay,” Phil answers. He’s running his hand up and down Scott’s back, as he rides through the last bit of nausea. He’s only bringing up small mouthfuls of bile now, panting miserably.

“I’m assuming you want to fill in for him at this meet-and-greet?” Coach asks.

“Yes, sir. If that’s okay. It’s too late of notice to find anyone else.”

“That’s fine, Lammers, on two conditions. One, you’ll need to make up the practice on your own time.”

Phil nods. “Right. Of course.” That was given.

“And two, I want you to bring Keene to the natatorium. I want Erin to take a look at him.”

“Okay, I can do that,” Phil confirms. He’s glad someone will be looking after Scott since he won’t be able to.

“Oh, wait, I just thought of a third condition.”

“And that would be...?”

“I’m gonna need photo evidence of you in the Santa suit.”

Phil rolls his eyes. This feels like karma. “You got it, Coach,” he says dully.

Jennings chuckles again. “Tell Scott we’ll see him soon. Thanks for calling, kid.” They hang up and Phil is able to turn his full attention back on Scott.

Scott, who is still clinging onto the trashcan for dear life.

Phil scoots closer to him, holding his breath to avoid the offending odor. “I think you’re done, buddy,” he says gently. “C’mon, sit back.” He peels Scott away from the trashcan and props some pillows behind him.

“I don’t feel good,” Scott breathes. He curls his arms back around his stomach.

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay," Phil murmurs. Jennings let me off the hook for practice, so I’m gonna fill in for you, okay? Coach wants Erin to take a look at you, so I’ll request an Uber and help you to her office before I head to church. Sound good?”

Scott blinks up at him and yet another tear slips down his cheek. He nods. “You’re the best person I know,” he says with a croak.

“You’re delirious,” Phil returns fondly and reaches to brush the hair out of his eyes. “Now c’mon." He puts on the Santa hat and grins. "We have some clothes swapping to do.”