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Tommy wakes up with a headache, which is bad because number one, he needs to go to school, and number two, he feels so so drained. It feels like he has run a marathon, and went to sleep with aching bones and a dry throat.
What’s worse is that he feels the fever coming in. It’s only getting worse. And it'll go downhill from here, speaking from experience. He should have known; he felt quite fatigued yesterday. Tommy huffs, and his exhaled breath derives into a coughing fit.
Goddamn, he feels like someone’s grandfather on his deathbed rather than a twelve year old middle-schooler. This sucks. This is the worst he's ever been, probably.
Tommy removes the blanket clinging onto his sweaty skin, tossing it to the side to be abandoned and unfolded.
His head pounds harshly as he sits up, and when his feet touched the ground, all he felt was everbearing cold. Tommy walks to his door sluggishly, ignoring the twinge in his temples.
His legs are weighing him down more than ever, which doesn’t make sense because they’re his legs. They’re supposed to keep him upright.
Lethargically, he hovers to the kitchen and fetches a glass of cold water.
And when he took a sip, it was…
Cold cold cold cold cold-
Tommy lets the glass clutter and slide onto the counter before bolting for the sink. His fingers grip the metal, and even that was cold too. His stomach clenches in pain, but he heaves. He heaves until the bile rises to his throat.
Fuck. He should've drank something warm instead.
Bitter water escapes his mouth. There's no chunks of food, or putrid smell. It's acidic and watery. It's fucking disgusting, yet he knows the feeling like a common plague.
Tommy sighs, rising from the sink. His world shifts like an earthquake uprise.
A door opens, and he barely pays attention to it, too caught up on regaining focus. Get a grip, Tommy.
Someone walks into the kitchen, and he lets the tap run. Why? Because being seen like this would be a new low for him.
“I bet you'll fail at that Science project from last night, To-”
It's Techno, and he cuts himself off upon seeing the blond.
“You look like a car just ran you over,” he continues.
And boy, one might as well have had.
Tommy tries to glare at him, but his eyes are burning as if someone put the ends of his optic nerve on fire. He feels his stomach lurch again.
“Good day, Blade,” he salutes before vomiting all over the sink again.
Techno watches in panic and rushes to his aid. A warm hand runs through Tommy’s chilled spine, and it's good. That hand pats him gently. That's also very, very good.
When he finished, all Tommy felt was exhaustion. It's like he needs a year of sleep, or perhaps a hibernating session. Fuck it, even if humans don't work that way.
“Are you..” Techno trails off, looking at him with an unreadable expression only close to concern. “Are you alright?”
“Do I look like I am, dickhead?” Tommy so badly wants him to piss off, but his hoarse voice isn't really helping his case, and instead makes his older brother gaze at him even more worriedly. He shakes it off anyway, and starts heading to his room.
“You're not going back there without getting any treatment,” Techno says. Okay, he hasn't been that responsible in years.
Tommy shakes his head.
Wrong move.
The universe starts fucking melting.
Tommy falls onto the carpet, face-flat as he mumbles curses underneath his breath.
He hears shouting in the distance, it's Techno calling for Phil. Unless he has skipped a few steps and acquired auditory hallucinations.
“Come on,” Tommy feels a hand on his shoulder. “Let's get up, Theseus.”
“Mm, don't wanna,” Tommy mumbles.
He gets rolled over on his back, and he cracks both eyes open slightly. Techno’s speaking to him..something about temperature and medicine.
A palm is on his forehead. Feeling, touching, feeling.
“Your temperature is so high,” Techno informs.
“C’n sleep it off,” the younger mutters, slurring his words. “Let me sleep.”
“Yeah, of course,” the pinkette assures. “I'll let you sleep. Just take a spoon of medicine, okay?”
“Please,” Tommy begs. “Don't wanna move. Let me stay here. I'm gonna die.”
“You're not gonna die, Tommy,” Techno sighs.
He's not gonna die, yes, but he feels like it. Just lay him in his grave already, for fuck’s sake. His body hates him and will betray him anytime anyways.
Someone else comes into the room. It's Phil–or at least it looks like Phil. Tommy doesn't know; the man is just a blurry mess in his vision.
His dad picks him up, uttering words of reassurance his ears end up blocking out.
“Bed, please,” Tommy whispers.
“We’re almost there, sunshine,” Phil says, oddly comforting, mildy soothing.
Tommy hums, and the next thing he knew, a metal spoon is in front of him. Techno is holding it, and Phil is keeping him in a half-sit position with his legs sprawled out on the sofa (when did he get here?) and his head resting on his father’s shoulder.
“Here comes the airplane,” Techno teases, swiveling the spoon around.
Tommy groans in annoyance, shutting his eyes and turning away to bury his head into Phil’s shirt.
“This is absolutely not the time for jokes, mate,” Phil scolds the older, and Techno clicks his tongue.
“I was trying to lighten the mood, alright? It's not like he's dying.”
Again.
He probably fucking is at this point.
His head feels like it's a war drum beaten one too many times because of two kingdoms’ fighting obsession.
Techno makes a second attempt, this time in a not irritating manner. “You’ll feel better if you take this.”
And boy, was that tempting.
Tommy leans towards the spoon, swallowing the bitter medicine quickly, making him cringe from the overwhelming sensation bubbling in his tongue, then down his throat, through his esophagus, and sits solemnly in the bottom of his stomach.
He whines, thrashing like a little kid because he just wants to get better. Please. Take the migraine away and ram it with a truck or something.
“Uh, is he having a seizure?” Techno asks obliviously.
“He's having one of his tantrums in the middle of being sick,” Phil informs with a sigh.
“Warmth. Now please,” Tommy pleads.
Give him a blanket, please. Or a hug. Or let him retire in a desert somewhere.
“Aww, he wants a hug from his brother,” Phil coos, looking at the pinkette expectedly.
Techno scrunches up his nose. “That's not what he said at all.”
“Let him have it, mate,” Phil smiles.
His older child leans in for a hug, and his youngest takes it like a victory trophy, overjoyed.
“I hate you,” Techno says with no real heat behind his voice.
“Okay,” Tommy responds.
“You're really just gonna take that?” Techno wonders.
“Yeah..”
“Oh.” Okay, now he feels guilty, so what?
“Get well soon, Theseus,” he wishes. “Love you.”
Tommy makes another noise that could only mean him returning the emotion displayed.
And maybe..
Just maybe, he doesn't feel like dying anymore.