Christmas is one of the few days of the year that makes Judah feel warm. There could be a blizzard outside and twelve beers coursing through his dad’s veins, but Judah’s heart remains thawed. Despite the grief that’s been breathing down his neck since first grade, he’s managed to be lucky enough to avoid the seasonal depression that burdens so many people. He knows his mom wouldn’t want him to mourn on her favorite day of the year.
Under the tree in his living room sits a box covered in gold fabric. It’s filled with letters to his mom. Every year, he adds something new. Sometimes it’s a collection of the poetry he’s written over the year, sometimes it’s raw scribblings he bled over on the nights where all he wanted was to cry to his mom.
This year, it’s a carefully crafted paper crane. At the start of the year, he began a list of everything he wished he could tell her. When Arlo went on an origami kick over the summer, he’d tried to teach Judah. The only thing that worked out for him was a crane, albeit a rather wrinkled one. He spent hours practicing to make this one perfect, and everything he wanted to tell her is tattooed across every inch of the paper.
Tucking it in among the other papers, Judah feels the warmth in his chest blossom. He takes another moment to just look down at the collection before he closes the box and stands.
And, whoa.
His vision tunnels, and he grasps for the doorframe that he’s lucky is directly to his right. It takes several long seconds for his eyes to start working again, but his head is still spinning. He feels almost—drunk?
He swore after his last hangover that he’d never touch another drink. So far, he hasn’t, so that’s not the problem here. He starts asking himself what could be wrong, but his body gives him an answer before he really wants it. It comes in the form of nausea seeping over him like lava.
Pressing a fist to his lips, he forces himself to swallow against the rising feeling. It’s all so strange. He felt fine a few minutes ago. Right?
He tries to remember the morning and gets the sinking feeling that his love for Christmas has been cloaking a bone-deep exhaustion and lack of appetite all day. Maybe he’s reading into it too much, but his head has begun to throb. Or was it already? It’s all a bit much all of a sudden, and he finds himself retreating to his bedroom without a second thought.
He retrieves his phone from the bedside table and pulls up Aunt Jo’s contact.
When are you guys heading over?
He stares at his phone and waits for the delivered to change to read. The sudden urge to climb into bed and never come back out claws at him, but he knows that would never fly. His dad is right downstairs, and if Judah doesn’t come down before long, he’s sure he’ll notice. He doesn’t need things going downhill before they’ve even had dinner. It’s not like he doesn’t want to see his granddad or his aunt, the problem is just that he sort of feels like throwing up now, and he doesn’t really want an audience if he can help it.
With that in mind, he trails over to the bathroom and locks the door. Being in such close proximity to the toilet makes him feel even worse. He remembers the last time he got sick, and how long he’d spent draped over the murky water praying he’d just die.
He needs this one to be quick. With shaking hands, he braces himself on the tank of the toilet and forces a cough. His stomach presses upward uncomfortably, but nothing comes up. Another few coughs certainly takes him close to gagging, but apart from some watery spit, nothing makes it into the toilet.
He straightens up with a quiet, frustrated groan. How is it that his stomach was nearly flying out of him downstairs but won’t budge in front of a toilet?
His phone buzzes on the countertop beside him. He picks it up. It’s Aunt Jo.
Heading over in a minute, I’ll see you soon!
He’s simultaneously relieved and disappointed. If he just had a few more minutes, he might be able to get whatever wants out out. As it is, he’s screwed.
“Judah,” his father calls from the stairs. Double screwed.
He collects himself just enough to walk out and call out an answer. His head aches with the echo of his own voice.
“The hell are you doing up there?”
“Forgot my phone, Aunt Jo was texting me. They’ll be here any minute,” he answers, trying not to bristle at the tone of his dads voice. He should be used to it by now, really.
“That’s just great. Get your ass down here and finish up in the kitchen.”
“Yes sir,” he replies, wanting so desperately for things to calm down before they get here.
He only allows himself five more seconds of private misery before starting down the stairs. As he rounds the corner, the smell of the food he’d been cooking just earlier suddenly has him lingering close to the sink in case the nausea overwhelms him.
He finally takes the ham out of the oven and makes every effort to avoid looking at it. One spare glance at the mashed potatoes has his stomach churning badly. For a moment, he wants to just give up. He wants to throw up, go to his room, and sleep for the next few weeks.
Instead, he takes the iced tea he’d brewed earlier out of the fridge and sets the pitcher on the counter. The effort has his arm aching for no good reason. Thankfully, that’s the last of what he has to do.
“Care to explain why you’re just standing there instead of setting the table?” His fathers gritty, slightly slurred voice drawls behind him. So much for being done.
“I’ll do that now.”
His father just hums, low and dismissive. It’s clear from both the collection of bottles in the trash and his eyes that he’s already downed more than enough alcohol.
Judah gets that the holidays are hard when you’re missing someone—he gets that. He also gets that there’s a reason why Granddad stayed with Aunt Jo overnight after he flew instate instead of here. What he doesn’t get is getting piss-drunk every year and acting like you’re not. It’s certainly not convincing.
With a sigh, Judah ignores the way his head is starting to spin, gathers four plates, and places them on the table. He goes back for silverware and napkins, and then he dares to tell himself he’s done everything. Thankfully, before his dad can berate him about anything else, there’s a knock at the door. He instantly feels better.
His father beats him to answering the door, and Judah watches the painful exchange of his relatives pretending that they’d missed each other. In reality, Judah really has missed his grandad. After all, he’s the closest thing Judah has ever had to a father figure.
He almost feels well as his grandad hugs him. He can smell the same cologne he’s used for the last few decades. It reminds him of every last good year of his life. It’s almost hard not to start crying.
But instead, he pulls away, stepping toward his aunt and letting her wrap him up in her arms tightly. He really does almost cry then, tell her how awful he feels, but he somehow manages not to.
They say the same bullshit about how are you and what have you been up to and how are things in Colorado, but Judah starts to tune out. No matter how nice it is to see them again, he can no longer ignore the churning wake in his stomach.
His father gives him a look, and he knows immediately he has to go get the food. They settle in at the table while he goes to retrieve it. When he’s brought everything to the table, he’s more than happy to sink down into his own chair.
However, he’s much less happy about having to load up his plate with food he absolutely doesn’t want. Aunt Jo had brought some casserole and fruit, so he goes mainly for those. He pales at the mere idea of eating ham and buttery mashed potatoes.
“So, how was school this semester, Jay? Are you excited to graduate next year?” His aunt asks.
He manages to swallow a mouthful of casserole and wash it down with some tea so it’ll hopefully stay down. He wracks his brain to try and think of anything positive to say. In reality, he’d barely scraped by in calculus and avoided almost everyone he could. The idea of graduation is exciting, but the idea of college applications makes his stomach churn a little harder.
“Yeah, for sure, um. Well, my history teacher took us to that museum downtown, it was pretty cool.” He clears his throat. It’s thick with nausea. “I had some classes with Arlo, so that was good too.”
He prays he won’t have to say anything else. With so much food in front of him and his dad’s eyes burning into the side of his head, he’s so dizzy he can hardly stand it. Another wave of nausea passes through him then, worse than the last.
“Is that the same boy I met last time?” Granddad asks before taking a big bite of ham. Judah’s stomach gives a violent turn, so he only dares to nod. “Mm. He seems like a good kid. There’s not too many of those anymore.”
“Yeah,” he breathes. An uneasy chill breaks out across his skin. He wishes Arlo was here.
The fireplace crackles in the silence that follows. Judah chokes down a few more forkfuls of his dinner. Mom would’ve known how to keep things light.
“You know, I was thinking maybe you could come see me in the mountains soon, kid. I bet you’d really like it.”
Judah feels a pang of guilt for not having visited in so long, but then again, he hasn’t really been allowed to do much at all. His dad nods, says it’s a great idea, but Judah knows that’s a load of horse shit. The second Judah brings it up later, it’ll be shot down in a fiery blaze.
“That would be amazing, Granddad, thank you. I’d love to.”
Thankfully that sparks some stories about Colorado, and his guests’ attention is mercifully directed away from him. He’s finished over half his plate now, and it’s sitting like jagged rocks in his stomach.
If his head weren’t aching so badly, he might have a chance of listening to their conversation, but as it is, he’s barely lucid. What shreds of energy he has left are focused on keeping his dinner where it belongs. He breaks out in a cold sweat.
When he’s mostly cleared his plate, the ache in his stomach has almost tripled. He’s taking small sips of tea to keep things flowing in the right direction. The gesture’s effectiveness is dwindling exponentially.
For a couple minutes, his father disappears from the table with the excuse that he’d left a candle burning in the other room. Judah knows that means he’s going to go chug another couple of warm beers, but he’s smart enough even now to know better than to hint at that.
He tries desperately during that time to look even slightly engaged in the conversation. Nausea pools in the pit of his stomach, blooming toward his throat. He’s freezing, though he can feel the heat radiating from his palm where it’s resting on his leg.
His father returns, and Judah doesn’t miss the way he has to grip the table while he’s sitting down to keep from swaying. Embarrassment flames hot up the skin of his neck. He takes another sip of tea.
Only this time, he can’t seem to swallow it. He sits there, stone-still, willing his body to obey. It takes several long seconds, and the tea is warmed from saliva when he finally gets it down.
His stomach churns dangerously in response, his body suddenly flushing hot. He feels the blood drain from is face in an instant. He gets the awful sensation of his dinner sloshing up thick toward his throat, and he has to go—now.
“Excuse me,” he interrupts, pushing away from the table.
“Judah,” his father says. He ignores it. He knows he’ll pay for it later, as if he’s not already paying for his own existence now.
By the time he’s halfway up the stairs, he’s stifling gags against his sleeve. A wash of watery spit flows over his tongue, and he heaves his way through the hallway. His stomach lurches with finality as he passes the threshold of the bathroom. He’s only just made it through the doorway when a good portion of his dinner comes splattering out onto the tile and bathmat.
He locks himself inside the bathroom and prays no one heard him get sick on the floor. His dad would kill him. If this doesn’t kill him, that is.
The second his knees hit the cold tile, he’s vomiting again, blushing the clear water below an ugly shade of beige. He’s doing his best to be quiet, but being violently ill isn’t exactly what you’d consider a peaceful activity—especially when the food coming back up hasn’t even had time to digest.
There’s a brief moment where he stops, thick spit hanging from his mouth. He gets a few seconds to breathe, but then his stomach is churning all over again, and he knows the worsened aching means it’s working hard to bring everything else up he’s eaten today, too.
He’s begging the universe please not again, but all it sends back a resounding yes—again.
Some air comes up with a sudden retch, and then he sprays the back of the toilet with the beginnings of round two. He’s sort of surprised no one has come to see what he’d hurried away for, but he’s more grateful for that than anything. At least his father is maybe distracted.
As he continues to heave uncontrollably, it becomes evident that, yes, he’s already throwing up the sandwich and leftover pizza he’d eaten for lunch. The nausea ticks back up a few notches at the idea of something sitting so long inside of him and now coming back up with no chance of stopping it.
By the time his stomach ebbs to a gentle churn, he’s trembling wildly and so dizzy he could faint, but he has bigger problems. Half of his dinner is still splayed out thick across the floor to his left. He dares to look at the damage and has to whip his head back around to the toilet to be sick again.
He makes sure he’s done, and though he doesn’t feel all that much better, it’s a comfort to know he’s not at risk of emptying his full stomach at the dinner table. The throbbing in his temples has also dulled a little, which he’s certainly not complaining about.
He tries to make quick work of mopping up his vomit with toilet paper and spraying the bathroom with his cologne to hopefully mask the sour, sick smell should anyone walk by. He washes his mouth out at the sink and sees that his skin has gone an unnatural yellow-grey. He’s covered in sweat. There’s no way he can play this off, but he’s going to have to try.
His legs shake as he leaves the bathroom, and he attempts to steady them while he goes down the stairs. His stomach gives a hollow moan. The lingering nausea has him swallowing repeatedly as he approaches the table again.
There are three pairs of eyes on him, each laced with varying levels of concern. His father mostly just looks annoyed. Judah tries to pretend like it doesn’t affect him.
He clears his throat. “Sorry, I uh…,” he rasps, raw and sore. “I really needed to make a call.”
“Jude, you look awful, hon. Are you okay?”
Judah tries to perk up a little at that. He’s sure it’s not working.
“Oh, yeah, it’s just Arlo. His, um, his cat passed away earlier today, and I promised I’d call him before it got too late. He was pretty upset, so…that was hard.”
Judah prays his aunt doesn’t remember that Arlo’s cat died over a year ago. Thankfully, if she does remember, it doesn’t show.
“Oh no, on Christmas morning? That’s really tough. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, me too,” Judah breathes, hoping they’ll just drop it and move onto something else. Death tends to do that.
And it does. Their attention drifts away from him again, and he can relax a little. He spends a few minutes just collecting himself. His eyes are aching along with his stomach and head, longing to shut and stay shut.
He lets them drop for just a few seconds, and when he opens them again, he finds himself looking at the remnants on his plate, which is just about the worst place his eyes could’ve landed. The smell suddenly hits him again, and the memory of being sick along with the sight of everyone still eating what he’d just had to violently throw up brings on a nausea he can’t ride out. Suddenly, heat is exploding in the back of his throat, and bitter vomit fills his mouth with a muted gush.
He doesn’t bother excusing himself this time, and he’s not going to make it to the bathroom, so he settles for the kitchen sink. He spits it all out, a string of curses repeating over and over in his head. He’s not done.
In hopes of covering the sound and washing out the sink at the same time, he turns on the faucet full blast. His bile-tinged breakfast makes a reappearance all over the stainless steel. His legs are barely holding him up as he curls over the edge of the sink with another heave.
“Oh, Jude…,” he hears behind him. It’s Aunt Jo. His heart drops. He’d tried so hard. “I knew you weren’t feeling good.”
Her hand runs across his back, and he vomits again. His stomach is already so sore, his head spinning. If he doesn’t stop puking soon, he’s going to faint.
“Alright, now what the fuck is this,” his father bites.
“He’s sick, Chris, give him a break,” Aunt Josie retorts. She never backs down when it comes to him, thank God.
“Probably just wasted. Little piece of shit stole my liquor not even two weeks ago.”
“Oh yeah? Well being drunk doesn’t give you a raging fever like his—you would know.”
At that, Judah retches more violently than he has all night. He’s scared for his aunt, and this argument has his nerves sharp, his insides knotting tighter. He remembers the beating he’d received upon his father’s discovery. He vomits from the very pit of his stomach.
Aunt Jo is still rubbing his back, so his father hadn’t lunged at her immediately. That makes him feel marginally better. He hears footsteps and then a door slam, and the relief of his father being gone is tangible. Still, his vision is blacking out around the edges, and he’s feeling so weak that he could collapse.
With one final, choking retch, he’s left panting over the drain. Aunt Jo uses the pull-away faucet to wash everything down, and then she brushes back some of the sweat-matted hair from his forehead. He could start sobbing if he weren’t so dehydrated.
“He okay?” He hears a deeper voice say. His grandad is standing in the doorway of the kitchen when Judah dares to straighten up. His father really is gone. He hopes he isn’t driving that drunk.
“Got sick to his stomach. I think he has a pretty bad fever,” she replies.
“M’okay. Really sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, Jay. Throwing up is not something you have control over.”
“Should’ve just stayed in the bathroom,” he murmurs, whole body aching.
“Jude, how many times have you thrown up today?”
He hums. “Once earlier. I tried to make it through dinner, but I just started feeling so sick, I didn’t mean to waste all that food,” he murmurs, the tears that wouldn’t come earlier beginning to well up. “I’m sorry.”
“Judah, it’s okay,” she insists, pulling him in for a hug. Her hand draws over his back.
Granddad comes a little closer. “I’m sorry you’re feeling so awful, Judah. Your father has no right treating you the way he does.”
Judah stays silent at that. The less he talks about it all, the better. Talking about it hasn’t done him any good in twelve years.
“I think I need to lay down,” he finally murmurs, aching and exhausted.
Wordlessly, Aunt Jo begins to lead him upstairs. His fever comes back with a vengeance, swelling into a thick fog in his head. His body pulses with pain and fatigue. Tears keep slipping down his cheeks without permission.
His mouth feels fuzzy, his limbs full of static. Consciousness leaves him like draining blood. An angry ocean of darkness curls around him.
Whoever came up with the phrase “fever dream” certainly made it sound too pleasant. It’s more of gut-wrenching nightmares, terrors unimaginable in wakefulness. He’s drowning. He’s drowning, he’s drowning, he’s—
He’s looking at Arlo. Chest heaving, hot tears collecting under his chin, he stares at the boy beside him. He must still be dreaming.
“It’s okay, Judah, you’re alright. It’s just me,” he reassures quietly.
“You’re…,” Judah starts, unable to form any other words. His heart meets his stomach in his throat.
“Yeah, it’s okay.”
He’s shaking, drenched in sweat. He can barely remember a thing. Arlo flicks on the lamp beside them and sits carefully on the edge of the bed.
“Are you, um. Do you feel any better?”
Judah brings a trembling hand up to wipe the tears off his face. The question wakes him up a little. Memories start to trickle back in, hazy and uncomfortable to remember.
All of a sudden, he’s feeling every bit as miserable as before—probably worse. With a groan, he rests his head in his hands, the room swaying dangerously under him. His stomach wrenches tightly.
“Arlo…,” he starts. I don’t feel good. Get me a trash can. Move so I don’t puke on you.
He can’t get the words out.
“Yeah?”
His stomach pitches, floods full. Spit gathers warm under his tongue. He shuts his eyes tightly and feels a drawn-out rush of liquid pass his lips and cascade down his shirt into his lap.
“Oh shit,” Arlo blurts, and Judah’s pretty sure that’s the first time he’s ever heard him curse. He’ll tease him about it later. As of now, he’s a little occupied with violently emptying his stomach.
Thankfully, Arlo retrieves the trash can and gets it back to him before he has to be sick again. The smell and the feeling of puke soaking through to his legs sends his stomach reeling worse. He’s buried in the trash can, splattering his insides all over it, over and over.
If he’s not imagining it, Arlo’s hand is carefully brushing across his back. If this is a dream, it’s much less awful than the ones he was having before. He’d take puking over drowning any day.
As the fog begins to clear from his mind and his stomach stops lurching, he begins to think maybe it’s not a dream at all. He ignores his embarrassment for now and wipes a sleeve across his mouth. It’s going to have to be washed, anyway.
“What,” he barely manages, swallowing. “What are you doing here?”
Arlo shifts his weight, blinks. “Your aunt called me. Um. She said you were getting really upset and sick and kept asking for me.”
Judah frowns. He searches for the memory, even a trace, but he can’t remember that at all. Then again, he barely remembers the walk to his room, let alone anything after.
“Oh.”
“Yeah. And uh, she said she’s sorry to hear my cat died?”
That he does remember. His cheeks flush hot. There isn’t really a solid, logical explanation for that one.
“I needed an excuse for bailing from the table to go puke, so…I just couldn’t think of anything else to say. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s okay. I figured maybe it was a fever thing.”
Judah shakes his head. Silence grows thick. He’s heavy with illness.
“I’m really sorry you’re so sick, Jude.”
“It’s okay, I feel a little better…,” he replies, unsure if he’s really telling the truth or not. “Thank you for coming. I wanted to see you, but not exactly like this.”
“I knew I couldn’t just stay home knowing you were feeling so bad. Besides, I still owe you for that night at my house,” Arlo replies, his own face growing crimson.
“Well…thank you,” he quietly repeats.
“You’re welcome. Um. Let me help you with this.”
Judah goes to refuse, but then he realizes just how much of a mess he made and how little energy he has to do something about it. So, silently, he allows Arlo to take the trash can, pull back the blankets, and carefully take his shirt off.
“I should shower…,” he murmurs, feeling much too exhausted to even think about moving.
“Yeah. Do you need help getting there, or like, clean clothes or something?”
Judah nods, eyes falling shut. He lets them linger there for a long moment. He feels Arlo’s tentative hand on his bare back, and he opens them.
“Here,” he encourages, slowly helping Judah out of bed.
They cross the room just as slow, finally making it to the bathroom. Judah sits on the toilet lid with a groan. Arlo turns the water on.
“What clothes do you want?”
Judah shrugs just barely. “Anything.”
“Okay. You’re not gonna pass out or anything right?”
“Probably not.”
It’s not a super comforting answer, but Arlo only lingers a bit before retreating to the bedroom. He returns with a t-shirt, some boxers, and some sweatpants. Judah thanks him, and he leaves again.
Judah is alone in the bathroom then, steam beginning to fill the air. He can’t find it in himself to get up for several minutes. When he does, his vision turns to static, and he grips the countertop beside him. The room spins.
He turns quickly toward the toilet, lifting the lid and gagging up a few streams of bile and stomach acid. When he feels finished, he undresses and steps into the shower, immediately sinking to sit in the tub. He hugs his stomach, letting the water just fall on him.
It feels really nice. He’s not freezing for the first time in a long time, and his headache almost retreats entirely. There, under the steady water, he suddenly remembers his father.
Surely he isn’t back home or Arlo wouldn’t be here so late. The thought of him still being out there makes his stomach twist with anxiety, and yet, he feels like he can finally breathe. It’s a feeling he’s never quite been able to shake when his dad is out somewhere drunk with no contact.
He leans forward and throws up a little. He’s too sore to really retch, so whatever watery nothing comes up is weak and comes out all on its own. He wonders briefly if he’ll ever stop puking.
He stays in the shower until the water starts to run cold and make him dizzy again. It takes more effort than he’s willing to admit to climb out of the shower and dry off. He dresses slowly and realizes he’d forgotten to flush the toilet.
He does, then washes his mouth out. The last thing he needs is to wake up with his mouth tasting like puke again. With the reminder that Arlo is probably still out there, he musters up the energy to leave the room.
His bed has been stripped, and Arlo is sitting in the chair by the window, looking down at a book Judah has never picked up from his own bookshelf. When he walks in, Arlo looks up.
“Hey. How do you feel?”
Judah shrugs. “Little better. Threw up a couple more times.”
“Sorry.”
“S’okay.”
Arlo closes the book and sets it down. Judah stands there, wet hair clinging to his forehead. He shivers.
“So um. I told your aunt what happened and she went to wash everything. She brought you some medicine and stuff.”
Judah looks at the beside table and sees a fresh trash can, water, pills, and some crackers. His stomach rolls uncertainly.
“Oh. I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep them down.”
“Yeah, I told her you probably wouldn’t be up for it, but it’s there if you want.”
Judah nods, then promptly heads for his empty mattress and collapses down on top of it. He curls onto his side with a sigh. Arlo is looking at him quietly. Judah finds it in him to smile.
The room has gone dark now, only illuminated by the orange light of his small lamp. Arlo smiles back at him.
“You don’t have to stay. You’ve seen your fair share of me puking.”
“I know I don’t have to stay.”
Judah hums, exhaustion overtaking him. He feels safe. It’s the first night in weeks that he’s not afraid to shut his eyes.
“Arlo.”
“Yeah, do you feel sick?”
“M’okay…tell me about your Christmas,” he murmurs.
As Arlo laughs a little and begins to talk, the world around Judah warms. He hums again, tries to listen. Something inside him gives a gentle pull, and sleep takes him before the minute is up.
————————————
Author’s note:
Hello everyone! Sorry for the giant absence, I haven’t been feeling very uh…inspired? I love Judah, and so do some of you guys, so I thought I’d bring him back. It felt nice to know him again! Let me know what you think and I hope you all have a wonderful week!
Is this blog still active? I just came across your Judah fic and I fucking love him!
I come on here all the time, but I haven’t written in far too long! Thank you so much for saying that! I’m really glad you love him, he deserves all the love he can get.
Warning: graphic descriptions of vomit & mentions of grief
The second Judah passes through the front door, he wants to collapse. His knees threaten to fold, so he braces himself on the wall by the entry. He lets his head hang, grounding himself as he resists the urge to fall over. He hadn’t slept more than an hour the night before, and his classes were unforgiving as usual—halfway across the campus from each other, in fact. Lovely.
After a short moment, he lets his backpack drop to the ground and heads straight for the stairs. Usually, he’ll grab whatever he can find from the kitchen and call that dinner, but tonight, the last thing he wants to do is eat. To add to his misery for the day, he has the sneaking suspicion that he’s coming down with something nasty. Ever since lunch, there’s been suspicious movement in his stomach, keeping him right along the edge of feeling unwell.
He trudges to his room and lands face-down on his bed with a muffled groan. He doesn’t even have the time to take his shoes off before he’s dead asleep.
Everything seems sort of seasick and distorted in his dreams, like a stranger constantly weeping his name from several rooms over. He gets trapped in an impossible task more than once, and half of the time, he can’t even understand English. The frustration and confusion well up significantly, and he finds himself actually walking straight off a bridge.
He wakes with a start.
His neck is stiff, and his head feels so stuffed with cotton that he isn’t sure that he hasn’t just entered another dream. His mouth is dry and stale, and the more he wakes up, the more he gets the vague feeling that whatever he ate for lunch is swiftly coming back on him. Swallowing defensively a few times, he gives himself just another moment to come to.
Eventually, he pushes himself up and rubs roughly at his eyes until his vision fills with stars. When he opens them, he comes to the realization that the light coming from outside his window has dulled to a muted orange-grey. He doesn’t know what day it is or who he is for a single, frightening moment.
A quick glance at his clock tells him he’s slept for nearly four hours, but his body tells him he hasn’t slept in weeks. There’s a twinge of pain to add to the discomfort in his stomach now, and the slight movement from earlier has become somewhat of a storm in his insides. He brings a hand up to unbutton his jeans, sighing when he gets just the tiniest bit of relief.
Unfortunately, the duration of his relief is probably two minutes at most. After those precious moments of sitting half-lucid, he starts feeling significantly queasy and rotten inside. It begins as just a tug, but within minutes, he feels like he might actually have to throw up his lunch. It hadn’t been very pleasant going down, so he grimaces at the idea of it all coming back up, sure to be tinged with stomach acid and bile.
He almost thinks he can already taste it, and that sends him hurtling as fast as he can towards the bathroom. He feels a little faint, and once he’s safely kneeling in front of the toilet, he closes his eyes against the spinning sensation. His stomach doesn’t immediately come rocketing out like he thought it would, but he still feels like it could at any moment.
His belly gives a low whine, leading straight into a cramp. He loops his arms around his stomach and holds his breath as the organ twists and curls, clearly fighting with whatever garbage they’d fed him in that godforsaken cafeteria. The cramp eventually dissolves into a rippling bout of nausea, and he hangs his head over the bowl, groaning miserably.
When another cramp almost immediately begins to seize in his stomach again, his breath gets caught in his throat. An unexpected wave of emotion unfurls in his chest, and he suddenly wants nothing more than for his mom to be there, telling him he’ll be okay.
He lets out a strained sort of noise, letting the sense of longing sink like lead in his limbs and pin him to the floor. He’s usually very good at keeping these foolishly childlike and very impossible desires suppressed, but today, his body is already too occupied fighting the fever that has his blood curdling in his veins. He wants to cry, but all he can seem to do is tremble and moan while he waits for his stomach to turn on him. His throat tightens with the force of sobbing, but no tears or sound come out, so he tries to focus on his breathing like he’d been taught.
He shuts his eyes and lets out a long, measured exhale, imagining that billowing, black smoke is coming out of his lungs. It makes him relax somehow, bringing him some sense of cleansing to the heavy weight in his chest. Unfortunately, his stomach abruptly ruins the illusion with another nauseating flip, and he opens his eyes to cough miserably over the water. Again, nothing comes up to relieve the tension in his gut.
He groans, moving to lay completely on the floor in surrender. He stays plastered there for several minutes, sweating despite the cold tiles pressed to his skin. That same swell of emotion remains dormant in his chest, pressing up into his throat and making it difficult to get a full breath.
The sense of longing doesn’t leave, either, and suddenly, he needs his aunt more than he can express. Feeling resolute, he lifts himself using the edge of the tub to leave his safe haven. He does stop at the door, giving himself one last chance to turn around and hurl if he needs to, but he doesn’t feel too urgent. The spiked, rushing feeling he’d had before has dwindled down to a rumbling ache, but he still feels awful enough to seek the only familial comfort he has left.
He’s thankful for the fact that he’s already fully dressed and ready to go, thanks to the rapid onset of his near-coma earlier. He lazily pockets his phone and heads down the stairs, hoping he can make it out without being noticed.
He’s never that lucky.
The second he gets close enough to touch the front door, his name is being called from the next room. He deflates, suddenly feeling more exhausted than ever. He can feel the fever coursing through his veins, boiling his blood almost to the point of delirium. It takes him several seconds to realize he hasn’t actually responded, and then his name is called once again, sharper this time. He debates just walking out the door, but ultimately decides that would be infinitely worse, and so he walks into the living room.
He finds his dad, limbs strewn on the couch, illuminated only by the flickering light of the TV. Judah’s stomach churns. He begs it to wait.
“Well?” is all his dad says, and Judah knows better than to ask what he means.
“I’m...I just want to go visit Aunt Josie tonight,” he admits, voice softer than he intended.
His dad lets out a sigh, turning his attention back to the TV. He seems to be thinking, though, so Judah doesn’t move. Even though he knows visiting his aunt isn’t wrong, he somehow feels like he’s being disobedient. He gets the sudden urge to roll his eyes at the thought, but that would run too high of a risk if his father saw. Besides, he’s in no condition for an argument—in all honesty, he’d probably pass out.
“Alright. School night, though, so be back by eleven. No excuses,” he draws out, eyes glued to the screen. That was a much better response than Judah was expecting, so he feels himself relax. He almost wonders if he hallucinated it all and is really still face-down in his mattress.
“Yes sir,” he finally replies, breaking out of his reverie. With that, he makes his way back to the door, slipping out before his name can be called for anything else.
It’s bitingly cold outside, making his eyes begin to water as he walks down the cracked sidewalk. He loops his arms around his stomach as it protests the movement, gurgling a little more with each step. It’s almost completely dark out now, giving sharp edges to the vague feeling of loneliness that had followed him around nearly all day. The usually numbed and muted grief is rubbed raw for some reason today, and it feeds the uneasiness in his belly.
At one point, the nausea comes back heavily, actually forcing him to bend over the sidewalk and let strings of spit fall onto the grass. He dry heaves just once, willing himself to pull it together after that. The last thing he wants is a neighbor seeing him vomit in their front yard. He turns scarlet at the thought.
Picking himself back up, he brings a hand to rest on the slight bulge of his stomach, taut with sour air and food that refuses to digest. It turns, feeling thick and heavy as he continues walking as fast as his fever-aching limbs will let him. This fever is a pulsing thing, turning everything fuzzy around the edges and making him see shapes in the darkness. He begins walking with a little more purpose, the probably irrational fear making his spine drip with freezing dread.
It’s a few more blocks before he finally comes to his streetlamp-lit destination, and he almost wants to collapse right there on the front steps. His belly gives an almighty lurch, and he does all he can do to not whimper out loud.
He knocks against the swollen wood of the door and steps back. Not even a full minute later, he hears the lock click, and the door swings open to reveal his aunt. Her eyebrows shoot up and a smile pulls at her lips.
“Oh, come in, you insane child. Who in their right mind would walk six blocks in this weather just to see their ancient aunt?” she jokes, swiftly shutting the door behind him and wrapping up in a tight hug.
He holds her back just as tightly, feeling the knot in his throat thicken. The tears that wouldn’t come before are now collecting in pools that blur his vision, wobbling just before spilling over onto his cheeks. He’s absent for a few seconds, and when she pulls back, he realizes he hasn’t been breathing.
“Hey, hey...what’s all this, hm? What’s wrong?” She quickly swoops back in, gently taking his face in her hands and wiping at his cheeks.
His face feels hot from straining against the tears, and he doesn’t even know which version of the truth to tell her. His stomach hurts too much to talk right then, too. He doesn’t really know exactly why he’s crying, anyway, so he doesn’t know what to say. Even if he did know, he isn’t sure he’d be able to say it without throwing up a little.
“Okay, how about we go sit down first. C’mere,” she suggests, starting to lead him to the sun room. At this time of the evening, it becomes a bit of a sanctuary. He figures that’s why she chose it, but it’s cold. The windows are unforgiving, and he finds himself trembling even more once they’re settled. She notices, but doesn’t say anything; she simply takes the throw blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it around his shoulders. He mutters a thanks, but his voice comes out roughened and barely there. “Of course, hon. Just let me know when you’re ready to talk, okay?” He nods, but still doesn’t know how much he wants to share.
As he sits there, he’s too aware of the heavy churning in his belly, making his nausea swell. He swallows laboriously. “Can I have some water? I feel kind of sick,” he admits, sniffling.
“Sure, Jude. Is that all you need?” He nods just enough to be seen, but it still makes his head spin. “Okay, hang tight, I’ll be back in just a second.”
Sitting there on the sofa, he has no idea how he even made it to her house alive. He feels brittle and exhausted, and his stomach is so upset that he could pass out. He doesn’t know if it’s the lack of distractions or what, but he’s suddenly feeling a whole lot worse. The horrific mixture that’s been taunting his stomach all day is sitting uncomfortably high in his chest now, contorting his organs in the most unnatural way.
Before he knows it, he’s past the point of no return. His tummy swirls, pushing up into his throat with purpose now. He tries to swallow against the feeling, but he can’t, and he panics.
“Aunt Jo,” he calls out, as loud as he dares. He’s frozen in place, holding his stomach as it lurches angrily, and it feels final. He covers his mouth with his free hand just as Aunt Josie calls back with a yes? He can hear her footsteps returning, but then everything gets very fuzzy, and he feels like he’s underwater. He only just manages to mumble, “I feel like I need to throw up,” but then he’s finishing his sentence with the action, splattering hours-old lunch onto her rug.
“Oh—oh, sweetheart,” she laments, but his ears are ringing, and she sounds miles away.
He pitches forward again, releasing a heavy stream and nearly choking on it. Pockets of air get trapped between waves, and each involuntary burp only serves to bring up more of his stomach. The clenching feeling of a new heave comes on every time he finishes spitting out the contents of the last one, and he’s confident that he’s never been so sick in his life. Looking down into the puddle keeps him throwing up, so he’s grateful once a trash bin gets placed under his chin and blocks the view. It gives him almost thirty seconds of blissful peace.
Just as his guts start churning again, he feels a hand begin to rub between his shoulder blades, and then he can’t help it—he’s crying again. “M’really sorry,” he croaks in between ragged heaves, voice thick with nausea, “I just don’t feel good.”
“It’s totally okay, kiddo, sometimes you just can’t make it. You’ll feel better once it’s all out,” she comforts, and he feels her press a hand to his forehead. She sighs quietly.
He earnestly hopes she’s right, because he has to keep puking either way. The urgency pushes at his throat insatiably, making wave after wave of yellow-tinged vomit splash against the plastic bin.
“There you go, you’re gonna be alright. Couldn’t have felt good to have all that in your stomach,” she comments. She’s right, it was torture. Is torture.
The pool that’s collecting around the trash at the bottom forces him to keep his eyes shut tight, but tears inevitably still leak from the corners. He just can’t stop shaking, either, and he’s freezing down to his bones.
He still feels sick once he’s empty, and he presses into his tummy in an attempt to stop the ache. He blindly pushes the bin away just slightly with his free hand to save himself from another fit of dry-heaving. It takes a few moments after that for the lightheadedness and nausea to dull, and then he finds himself wanting to break down in childlike upset. Something hurts, and naturally, he feels like what he doesn’t have is the only way to soothe it.
“You’re thinking pretty loud there, Jude,” Aunt Josie comments, remaining steady in rubbing along his back. He feels like the gesture should make him feel better like it usually does, but frustratingly enough, he’s still reeling.
“I wish mom was here.”
It leaves his mouth like the vomit he couldn’t hold in, and the silence that follows makes him want to take it all back. Her hand stills along his spine, and the air hangs suspended for too long. There’s a sob lodged in his chest, aching and raw.
But then, he’s being pulled close to her chest, head cradled by her gentle grasp. “I do too, Jay. I really do.” And then he can’t breathe, so he has to let out the gasping sob, turning a bit to come apart in her embrace. “I know. You’re having a rough day, but it’ll be alright again. It will.”
She’s right, but he’s so spent. His stomach is gurgling less, but still sore, and his skin feels too sensitive with the impressive fever he’s sporting. He lets himself sink and feel all of it, closing his eyes against the steady thump in his head. Her sweater is somehow comfortingly scratchy against his temple, and he melts into the familiar smell of the same, fading perfume she’s used for decades.
As soon as he starts to feel alright, he remembers what day it is, and the torture continues. A low moan escapes his lips without permission. “God, I have homework, Aunt Jo,” he quietly confesses, honestly feeling like he could be sick all over again.
“Hon, there is no way you’re going to school tomorrow with a fever this high.”
“Dad won’t care.”
“Then stay here,” she says, as if it’s the most simple thing in the world. She’s probably more than tired of hearing about his dad.
“But, he said be home—“
“I’ll call him, Judah. You need to rest, so let me worry about him, okay?” She waits until he nods. “Come on, then, up you get.” After managing to help him off the couch, she sends him straight off to the guest room so she can clean.
He turns just before he’s out the door, because he finally does feel better, and she has a lot to do with it. “Thank you,” he utters, voice as small as the room.
warning: graphic descriptions of vomiting, carsickness, and some descriptions of a panic attack
The drive to the lake house always seemed a little too long for Ezra, but he usually managed to keep himself occupied enough. Some trips it was with music, others flew by with layered conversations, but this time, his body was bent on dragging out the minutes with pure torture.
He’d spent the first twenty minutes or so listening to Seven and Rose argue about who would be picking the music, and as usual as their bickering was, it made his head begin to pound. He found himself staring intently out the window afterwards, feeling generally uneasy. Unfortunately, that was a usual occurrence anytime he rode in a car for more than fifteen straight minutes. He hated how weak carsickness had always made him feel, but he’d thankfully gotten it more under control as he grew older.
All of that progress melted away once they reached the forty minute mark, and he found himself feeling just like he did as five year old, trembling with discomfort and paling by the second. The slow stirring in his belly had quickly turned into tidal waves, rolling over and over relentlessly. Whoever said having something in your stomach helps with carsickness was dead wrong, and no one could convince Ezra otherwise.
He didn’t dare take his eyes off of the horizon, fearing that one wrong move would send his breakfast hurtling to his feet. He cringed at the mental picture and pinched at the skin on his thigh, finding that as his only functioning distraction. He’d come to the conclusion several minutes ago that he should’ve already told someone, because at that point, it had become hard to imagine speaking. Looking away from the window long enough to hold a conversation would certainly be the end of him.
They’d somehow settled on playing Rose’s music, so Seven had been sulking a bit, looking out his own window in the times Ezra was able to take his gaze from the tree line. For some reason, the music only seemed to intensify the relative silence underneath, and Ezra’s unease grew. He just wanted to be out of the damn car, but there was still at least an hour and a half left to go. Dread seeped down to join the congealed mess in his stomach, bringing him just that much closer to giving in.
His belly curled queasily under his sweaty palm, gurgling in that certain way which he knew was always bad news. Swallowing down the sticky feeling in his throat, he decided to wait until the song went off to request that they pull over. That way, he wouldn’t have to yell and risk pushing up the burbling contents of his stomach.
It’s just his luck that Rose was in the middle of playing the longest fucking song he’d ever heard. His heart felt like it was straining in his chest, making him break out in a nervous sweat. His throat constricted, and he felt a sudden loss of control, signaling that it was no longer a question of whether or not he was going to vomit, but when and where.
Fuck it, he thought, as the song once again crescendoed in time with the rising of his nausea. He was not going to be able to wait—no way.
He let out a short hum to test his voice, finding it thankfully less wobbly than he’d expected. He took a deep breath, praying that when he spoke, he wouldn’t give in to the strong urge to heave that sat unmoving in the back of his throat. “Grey,” he managed, voice sounding a little too pinched. The song roared on, and Grey didn’t respond. He was about to try again when a cool hand landed on his thigh.
“What’d you say?” Came Seven’s voice, just a bit gritty from disuse.
“Need Grey...to pull over.” He would’ve elaborated, but Seven knew him well enough, and he also couldn’t seem to reign in the newest wave of nausea.
“Oh. Is it bad today?”
Ezra couldn’t do anything but nod carefully, feeling every last bit of color leave his face. His stomach squeezed inside of him, and he brought a hand to his mouth. He rolled forward, his cheeks suddenly puffing out with thankfully nothing but a short burst of air.
“Shit. Grey! Gonna need you to pull over right now.”
“Huh?”
Ezra’s panic grew. His stomach pulsed threateningly.
“I said pull over! Z’s going to throw up,” he repeated desperately, and Ezra could hear his shuffling movements as he probably searched for some sort of bag. If he wasn’t filled to the brim with nausea, Ezra would feel guilty for not preparing. It had just been so long since he’d actually lost the battle, so the thought simply hadn’t crossed his mind.
“What? Fuck, I—we’re in the carpool lane, I-I can’t cross yet, there’s-“
“Forget about the lines, Grey, just go!” Rose cut in, and Seven layered over her voice with a similar message.
“There’s literally a—“
“Go!”
“Fine!” Grey finally caved, and Ezra felt the car slightly jerk to change lanes. The combination of the arguing and the car’s movements made him feel exponentially worse, and he began silently begging to just disappear. He swallowed again, feeling the swirling heat start to climb in his throat. It splashed against the back of his throat despite his efforts, and he coughed at the acidic burn that followed.
Rose cursed when she heard him hacking and urged Grey to hurry up. However, not even a second later, the sound of a siren wailing briefly sliced through the air. Bright blue lights caught in their mirrors, and a stifling blanket of dread fell upon everyone in the car.
“Fucking fires of hell,” Rose bit, and Grey could only let out a small noise of distress. Seven stayed silent next to him.
Ezra’s guilt compounded, and that’s when his stomach decided that it had been through enough. A heave thundered up his throat, and on the first try, he brought up the foul remains of his sickly-sweet breakfast. The vomit coated his hands and splattered against the floorboard, earning a miserable, shaking moan from Grey.
Seven’s hand began to glide across his back, but nothing could quell the horrible, sticky churning of his insides. Another rush of completely unrecognizable orange juice and waffles burst from his mouth forcefully, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
He could hear Rose comforting Grey, which made him feel like shit, because this was the last thing Grey deserved. Ezra groaned as they finally came to a stop, just before he had to pitch forward to vomit again. His stomach turned as if to say this isn’t over and he hiccuped against the terrible feeling, willing himself not to get upset—which was a tall order, given the fact that this was entirely his fault.
He was drawn from his thoughts when Seven leaned in. “It’s okay, Ez, just take it easy. We know you can’t help it,” he reassured softly, just as the cop approached the window.
Grey rolled it down, and when Ezra spared a glance at him, he saw the trembling of his hand as it came to rest back in his lap. The guilt washed over him again in the form of a fresh bout of sickness.
“License and registration,” the officer said, voice faltering just a bit, and Ezra knew he must have made the car smell revolting. He tried to hold it in out of sheer embarrassment, but he just really had to throw up again, and the action of holding it back only made him retch more violently. His breakfast was coming out thin and brown now, making sickening sounds as it landed on the already soaked fabric below him.
He felt dizzy with exertion, so he closed his eyes and let Seven’s cold skin brushing circles at the base of his neck keep his mind occupied. He heard some shuffling of papers from up front, and then Grey’s wavering voice.
“Here, sir,” he managed to say, but Ezra knew he didn’t sound like himself. His brain started on a cycle of Poor Grey, and the relief in his stomach didn’t feel much like relief when he felt like such a colossal burden.
“Do you know why I pulled you over?” came the officers voice after a few beats.
“Yes, um, yes sir. I know I wasn’t supposed to cross until the HOV lines were dotted, but um, my—my friend back there was getting really carsick, so, I...I didn’t know what to do, sir. I apologize.” The more he talked, the more it sounded like he was going to cry, and that brought Ezra’s nausea back with a crushing weight. It pushed against his chest and he found himself folding over even further somehow, retching from deep in his stomach.
“Jeez, kid. You alright back there?” The officer gritted out, and Ezra hated how much he was affecting everyone around him. Still, he managed to nod perceptibly, keeping his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to face all of reality just yet. “Alright, well. I’m going to go back and quickly process your info, but I’ll let you all off with a warning today, okay?”
“Oh, God...thank you, sir,” came Grey’s voice immediately, breaking several times in the process.
As soon as he walked away, Rose was back to putting his pieces together again, but they all knew it wouldn’t be easy. Grey’s anxiety centered around both getting in trouble and vomiting, so Ezra had successfully fostered what was sure to be the beginnings of a panic attack. Ezra was so grateful for Seven in that moment, because if he would’ve had to deal with shouldering that weight on his own, he would be scarred. He still might be.
“Sev,” he breathed out, just shy of a whimper.
“I know, Ez. It’s gonna be alright, I promise. How are you feeling?”
“Disgusting. And like a total dick,” he rasped truthfully.
“He’ll be okay. No one’s mad at you, babe.” He felt Seven scoot closer, and a steadying arm came to wrap around his shoulders. He welcomed the feeling, trying to drown out the hitched breaths coming from the front seat.
After the cop returned his license and registration, he told them they were free to go, and Grey spilled his gratitude once more with tremors in his words. When the ordeal was finally over, Ezra looked up to see Grey’s face crumple. His chest hitched with held-back sobs, and Rose leaned over the console to wipe away every tear that fell.
“I tr—I tried to tell you guys there was a—was a cop next to us,” he hiccuped, his breathing choppy and labored.
“You did, baby, I’m sorry. But, hey, that wasn’t so bad, yeah? No ticket, and Ezra’s all finished, aren’t you, Ez? You feel better?” Rose prompts, and Ezra knows better than to say actually my stomach sort of hurts, and I can’t promise that I won’t puke again soon, so he just opts for a half-truth.
“I do feel better right now, Grey. I’m really fucking sorry I didn’t warn you in time, I swear I would’ve asked earlier if I remembered what that feeling meant before it was too late. And I’m sorry about your car, too, I promise I’ll clean it. I just messed up, Rey, I can’t apologize enough.” No matter what he said, he couldn’t seem to make any of it better.
“It’s—it’s okay,” is all Grey could seem to get out after a long moment, but Ezra understood the difficulty of talking mid-panic attack.
The car was quiet then, buzzing only with muted, soothing words from Seven and Rose. Eventually, Rose took Grey’s spot, because he still wasn’t feeling quite up to driving, and they thankfully headed towards the nearest gas station to clean up.
warning: emeto mentions, alcohol consumption, and graphic descriptions of vomit
(Another long one, oops!)
Arlo had just finished writing the longest essay of his life. His eyes felt like they were bleeding, and his brain was officially out of commission for the rest of the year. He closed his laptop and fell back onto his bed, planning to stay right there for the remainder of the night.
However, those plans quickly changed when his door flung open, revealing Judah. He looked pissed enough that Arlo remained still, waiting for the snap. He watched as he went right for the chair in the corner, slinging his backpack off his shoulder and unzipping it. He closed his eyes, huffed out a breath, and then finally looked over at Arlo. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Judah broke the gaze and focused back on his backpack.
“Bad day?” Arlo ventured to ask when it seemed like Judah wasn’t going to say anything.
“Bad life.”
“Hey, careful. We’ve talked about this, Jude. What is it?” Arlo asked, a frown settling on his features as he pushed himself up to sit back against the wall.
“I know, sorry. Just a lot of shitty stuff with dad this morning. Shitty day at school,” he mumbled. “It...it would’ve been their anniversary.” The air hung thickly for a moment.
“Oh, Judah. I’m sorry.” He felt like there was nothing he could do or say that would help, because he just didn’t understand what that kind of stuff was like; he knew his own life had been too easy.
“Don’t be, it’s not your fault. It is what it is, right?” He gave a crooked smile. “Besides,” he said then, lightening a bit. “I brought a present for us.”
“Hmm?” Arlo scooted to the edge of the bed, forcing his eyes to stay open. Judah needed him to be awake tonight.
Instead of answering, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a full bottle of vodka. A shit-eating grin appeared on his face as he looked at Arlo and held it like a trophy. Any trace of the broken boy he’d seen seconds before was gone, replaced with what Arlo had come to know as Judah’s shield from the world. Arlo’s eyebrows raised, and he said nothing, because words just wouldn’t form. He felt a little nervous if he was being honest.
“What’s that face for? This is life’s best medicine,” Judah laughed, standing up from the chair and coming to join him on the bed.
“Um,” Arlo breathes out, trying to find the right words. “I’ve just...I haven’t.” A blush crept up his neck at that, and he suddenly felt like maybe he should have just acted normal. Judah’s smile faded, and he never wanted to be the reason for that.
“Oh. I mean, you don’t have to drink any. We can just—“
“No, no it’s not like that...I think I want to. But that’s why I was, um, making that face,” he explained awkwardly, trying desperately to dissolve the tension he’d created.
“Alright, cool. But you really don’t have to, you know.”
“I know,” he replied, feeling his nervous energy slowly morph into something more electric. “I’m gonna go get some cups, okay? And um, should I find like something to mix with it or...?”
“If you want to. I use soda usually.”
Arlo nodded, getting up from the bed feeling like he’d been set on some sort of secret mission. As he quietly went down the hall, his heart pounded, and a sneaking, private smile painted itself on his face.
Having mostly been a “good kid” and never stepping much out of line, this felt like something big. He knew his parents were upstairs somewhere, and here he was about to get drunk. It felt weird in the best sort of way. He deserved to feel like a normal teenager for one night.
He retrieved everything he needed from the kitchen, carefully balancing it all as he returned to his room. He found Judah already on the floor with an Xbox controller in his hand. He looked up and grinned, following Arlo with his eyes as he came to sit down on the patch of carpet next to him.
The nerves curled and sparked over his skin, fizzling out into a mixture of anticipation and fear of the unknown. He surely didn’t want his parents walking in on them, so he excused himself briefly to go lock the door.
When he returned to his spot, Judah had begun to pour himself a drink, and Arlo watched on. It seemed like a lot, but he figured he didn’t know enough about alcohol to make an argument. He picked up his own cup and the bottle from Judah’s hands, hesitantly pouring in about the same amount.
He topped it off with the Sprite and stared at it for a moment, unsure of how fast he should go. He spared a look over at Judah, who was drinking it like a glass of orange juice at breakfast.
Alright, yeah, I can do this, Arlo thought brightly, finally looking away and bringing the cup to his lips.
It was sour and burned in a choking sort of way. He winced but held back the cough that twitched in his throat, not wanting to seem too fazed. He caught a glimpse from the corner of his eye and saw that Judah was watching him.
When he turned, though, Judah’s gaze quickly steeled, and he looked back at the TV. Arlo felt a creeping warmth seep into his cheeks at that, and it prompted him to take a bigger sip.
It hurt just as much, making his nose sting and prickling down his esophagus. He couldn’t tell if it was the carbonation, alcohol, or both, but he couldn’t say he was enjoying it. Still, he figured there had to be a reason why so many people liked this shit.
Three more cups and a few games of Mortal Kombat later, he discovered that reason.
He felt great, like—insanely free. Warmth blossomed from his chest and radiated throughout his whole body, making his eyelids heavy and limbs loose. It sloshed in his empty belly when he moved, but it wasn’t too uncomfortable. It made him laugh until he couldn’t breathe, and he felt like he could say anything in the world and there would be absolutely no consequences.
That was very dangerous when he was sitting so close to Judah, and he knew it.
He tried to push those thoughts as far back as he could, because he was determined to have a good night. It was going pretty well so far, and he wasn’t planning for that to change any time soon.
The only drawback he found was that he had to pee—a lot. Probably every ten minutes, they had to pause the game so one of them could venture down the hallway to the bathroom. It all seemed inexplicably fun, though, and Arlo often found himself stuck staring at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.
His cheeks looked flushed, and he smiled at himself lazily, bracing his weight against the counter top. Everything was just the right amount of fuzzy, and above all, he felt safe.
He flickered his eyes between his own gaze one last time and turned off the light, leaving to stumble his way back to the room. The hallway was a bit of a difficult stretch by that point, but he didn’t mind.
One of the biggest perks, he found, was that the more he drank, the less it burned. So, when he got back to his spot, he poured himself another drink. It might have been a little stronger, but he couldn’t really tell anymore. He frankly couldn’t have given less of a damn, either.
After a few sips, Judah’s hand landed on his shoulder. “I’m hungry, Lo. Please say you know something we can eat,” he breathed out, words colliding a little messily. His hand felt so warm and real in that moment that it took Arlo an extra second to think.
“Frozen pizza,” he finally responded, eyes going wide. Judah’s eyes grew too, and before they knew it, they were sneaking their way to the kitchen. Not falling down the stairs was quite a task, but they both managed to make it to the refrigerator alive.
“Preheat to 400° please,” Arlo whispered, trying his best to laugh softly. He didn’t even know what he was laughing about, but it didn’t seem to matter, because Judah was laughing too.
They did everything in their power not to stir up too much noise, so they ended up just sitting on the counter top, snacking on chips in relative silence. There was another burst of random laughter, but that time, it tapered off slowly, and they found themselves a lot closer than usual.
The laughter faded to smiles, and eventually those faded too, leaving both boys staring at each other, ears ringing. Arlo’s fingertips buzzed and his heart very nearly seized to function, but it felt too dangerously good. Judah’s eyes looked like pools of molten gold, swirling and glowing in the warm light of the kitchen. A curl hung loosely on against his forehead, and Arlo fought with everything not to brush it back or give it a soft tug.
The oven timer made them both jump.
Arlo blinked a good few times before embarrassment flooded through his veins like boiling water, and he hopped off the counter top unsteadily. His stomach sloshed again with the movement, but that time, it made him feel a little seasick. He caught himself on the island counter, but just barely. His own breathing sounded too loud in his head, and it was making him want to panic, so he focused on his task.
He put the pizza on the pan and opened the oven, surprised at how the heat there mirrored the warmth already brushing his cheeks. It took extra effort not to fall forwards as he pushed the pan in, closing the door behind it.
It was silent, then, and he couldn’t bear another close call like the one they’d just had. He needed a drink.
“I’ll um, I’ll be back,” he started, his own voice sounding a bit foreign. Judah looked at him from his spot on the counter, face terrifyingly unreadable.
Did I make it too obvious? I did, didn’t I? Fuck, I am so fucked. Arlo’s brain was no friend to him as he stumbled back up the stairs, gripping the wall so he wouldn’t come tumbling back down. Everything was swimming in front of him, and he no longer felt loose and happy. He felt ill, but he blamed that on not having any food to stop the swirling feeling in his tummy. He also somehow felt like Judah read his mind back there, and even though that’s impossible, he couldn’t help but get the feeling that he’d ruined something.
When he finally reached the room, he was desperate to go back to being carefree. He grabbed his fresh drink from where they’d hidden them and took a breath. He hesitated for only a second before bringing the cup to his lips and finishing the entire thing in one go.
Panting, he shoved the cup back into where it was. His stomach whirled audibly, but the warmth reignited, melting away most of the worry from his chest. At that, he considered his mission a success, so he turned around to leave.
When he did, the world became his enemy. It dipped and tilted under his feet, but he found himself laughing about it again. It felt like some sort of video game. He hiccuped and burped into his fist, feeling some of the pressure inside him give way. It felt nice, but everything did at that point.
As he stumbled his way down the hallway, he felt more carefree than he’d ever been since he was a kid. He even scooted down the stairs in a sitting position like he was three, but it was all part of the game in his mind. He giggled all the way down, peeling himself from the floor with some difficulty when he finally made it to the bottom. He just couldn’t wait to see Judah again.
When he turned the corner into the kitchen, he tried to regain a little composure, but he couldn’t stop smiling. Everything was dizzy and made him happy in a childhood sort of way. He wanted a hug.
He suddenly realized that whole monologue had happened while he stood slumped against the kitchen island, staring unashamedly at Judah. He was staring back with his mouth pulled into knowing smirk.
“You drank more, didn’t you.” It wasn’t a question, and all it did was set off another fit of laughter from Arlo. “I’ll take that as a yes,” he chuckled, burying his face into his hands. “I’ve created a monster, God help me.”
“Heeey,” Arlo drew out in false offense, coming closer to give Judah a weak punch in the arm.
“Don’t make me file for divorce,” he murmured back, smile evident in his muffled words.
“I take back th’punch. M’sorry. Forgive me,” he begged, taking Judah’s hand in his.
The universe must have been looking out for him, because the timer beeped once again, and Judah jumped from the counter with renewed enthusiasm. He didn’t even wait for Arlo, he just took the pizza out himself, going straight to the drawer he knew held the pizza cutter. That house was more his home than where he actually slept at night, and they both knew that.
Arlo figured that Judah taking the lead was probably a good idea, because things were getting a little too spinny. All he could seem to manage at that moment was bracing himself against the cabinets and breathing. He watched on as Judah started to slice the food, but his eyes traveled possibly too much.
The fabric of Judah’s t-shirt looked extra soft where it was stretched over his back, and Arlo wished he could brush his hands there. His eyes flitted up to his hair then, and fuck, did he want to touch it. He wanted to run his fingers through the curls over and over and forget about everything else.
These thoughts that he usually didn’t let roam were now stuck on repeat, twisting and weaving like his vision. He blinked hard and tried to come back to his body, but it wasn’t listening. He told himself that he just needed some food, and that maybe it would would give him his land legs and his sense back.
Stepping forward just as Judah finished cutting, he grabbed a slice and took a big bite. It tasted like nothing he’d ever tasted before—it was exactly what he needed. They dug in, hardly acknowledging each other as they finished the entire pizza in record time. Arlo could feel the food lining every inch of his stomach once he’d finished, pushing possibly a little too tight for comfort. He burped unexpectedly, covering his mouth as the tail of it rumbled out. It was a lot and definitely made him feel better, but color burned up his neck when he remembered who he was with.
“Sorry,” he breathed out, “ate way too fast.”
“Don’t be, that was pretty impressive,” Judah laughed, even reaching to grab the bowl of chips and continuing to eat. Arlo, whose stomach was definitely not in a state to handle any more food, had a different plan.
“Wanna take these upstairs so I c’n whoop your ass in Mortal Kombat?” he managed to say, beginnings and ends of his words running together. Judah’s eyes lit back up with the challenge.
“I think you’ve got that backwards, Arrie.” With that, he started towards the stairs, entirely too fast for Arlo’s body.
He laughed as he bumped along the walls, following as closely behind as he could. Somewhere along the line, he realized he couldn’t feel his legs, but it was kind of nice. Crawling up the stairs, he thanked the powers that be that his parents didn’t emerge; he wouldn’t have had any explanation.
He somehow made it to his room without breaking any bones, but as soon as he sat down, he realized there was another problem. Judah was already pouring him another drink. His full stomach suddenly rolled in protest, and he knew immediately that he shouldn’t have moved so fast after eating so much. His belly ached a little, straining against the amount of food and booze he’d just stuffed it with.
Still, he didn’t want to seem like he couldn’t handle himself, so he forced himself to take a couple of sips just as the first match started. He set the cup down and started to fight, his fingers fumbling to remember the attack combos. Failing miserably, he quickly got trapped in the corner, taking hit after hit.
He somehow remembered how to teleport to the other side, but when the screen shifted, something uneasy settled over him. Suddenly, the movement of the screen was making his vision swim even more, and the heavy mass of food in his stomach felt like it had instantly curdled. He resisted the urge to rub it in favor of staying in the game.
His efforts were useless, though, because he’d already lost the first round anyway. His character’s death was graphic and gory, abruptly bringing on an unexpected wave of nausea. Usually that kind of stuff didn’t bother him too much, but when his stomach was already so upset, he couldn’t help it.
He hiccuped just as round two began, and it started a chain reaction of movement inside of him. It was a churning, muggy sort of feeling, making his palms sweat against the controller. He started to surprisingly get the upper hand, but only because he was desperate to focus on anything apart from the turmoil in his stomach.
A burp traveled up his chest and he let it out, wincing at how strongly it burned with alcohol and carbonation. It brought no relief, and a general feeling of unease washed over him again. It felt like another burp was going to come up, but he quickly realized that it was going to be much more than air. He panicked just as he won the second round, which triggered another gory scene of someone’s head being split open across the screen.
Arlo’s stomach turned violently, and he brought a trembling hand to his mouth. The only solution that his brain provided was that needed to get out, and fast. The last round started just as he began to flee, trying to push himself from the ground with unsteady arms. The small movement made his stomach rise, muscles rippling as they prepared to heave. He realized that he couldn’t get up; he was past the point of no return.
A wet burst of air came up, and he couldn’t stop it before it brought up a bit of frothy vomit. He choked it back down, but the urge to heave ticked at the back of his throat. The world tilted around him queasily, dramatically increasing the bubbling in his insides. He abandoned his controller in favor of protectively holding the overfilled stomach. Closing his eyes, he begged for some control over his own body.
“What are you doing? This is the last round!” Judah protested, quickly pausing the game. Arlo stayed quiet, putting all his efforts into holding off the inevitable. “Are you okay?”
Arlo eventually felt the warmth settle back into his stomach, giving him a moment to decide if it was actually a false alarm. The nausea still weighed on him, but less, so he figured he might be okay. Maybe Judah knew of a way to help.
“I don’ like the way this feels anymore, Jude. How d’you make everything stop spinning?” He asked, voice unnaturally tight.
“Oh, no,” Judah drew out immediately, looking a lot more sober all of a sudden. It made Arlo nervous—it was hardly the reassurance he was looking for. He felt himself pale.
A fresh wave of crippling nausea stirred his stomach, and he brought his hand back over his mouth. In an instant, the dam broke, and a rush of thick warmth burst from between his fingers, coating his legs in secondhand pizza. He pitched forward with the next heave, and a larger wave splattered onto the carpet.
“Fuck,” Judah cursed, taking his nearly empty chip bowl and shoving it under Arlo’s dripping chin.
His stomach writhed again, sending a torrent of orange, burning vomit splashing against the plastic. He squeezed his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to look at it, but that only made him dizzier, and he had to throw up again. The only thing grounding him to reality was Judah’s steady, warm hand on his back.
He burped, choking up another wave of his disturbingly undigested dinner. It was revolting, but it made him feel so much better to get it out of his stomach. He retched again.
It went on like that for another minute or so before the realization of what just happened hit him abruptly. He finally peeled his eyes open to see the absolute mess he’d made, and no words could begin to describe how mortified he felt. Tears pinched at the back of his eyes, but crying would just be the cherry on top of the humiliation sundae he’s just made himself.
He cried anyway.
As the first few tears finally spilled over, Judah scooted closer. “Please don’t cry, Lo, I’m so sorry. I really shouldn’t have let you drink that much.” Just the mention of drinking made Arlo’s stomach clench, and something like the mixture of a hiccup and a gag hitched in his throat. He audibly swallowed back the impending rush of round two. “Oh—okay, Arlo...I think we might need to go camp out in the bathroom for a little while. Um, can you stand?”
Arlo truly didn’t know, but anything would beat crying in a puddle of his own sick, so he figured trying couldn’t hurt. Judah hooked an arm around his waist and helped lift, and although they definitely swayed at first, they didn’t topple over. It was a miracle.
Another miracle was that they made it to the bathroom in one piece, just in time for Arlo’s stomach to start really gearing up for an encore. It felt like whatever was left inside of him was sticking to his throat, and it took a good few heaves to finally get the next load up.
It landed unceremoniously into the toilet, splashing a bit of water back into his face. That made him retch again, and the cycle continued. The streams gradually became more bile and less burning alcohol, but he didn’t know which one was less torturous.
The crying definitely didn’t help either, especially when he inhaled sharply with a sob and was left choking on aspirated vomit. The coughing brought up several more watery streams until he was squeezed dry, hanging lifelessly over the swirling, sour water.
It was then that the fuzz in his ears cleared and the spots in his vision began to fade, and the first thing he noticed was Judah’s proximity. He was curled at Arlo’s side, and Arlo hadn’t even noticed that he’d been rubbing his back the whole time.
Still dizzy and fairly impaired, he found himself overwhelmed with feeling. The fact that he somehow hadn’t run Judah off already felt too big, and he didn’t know where to place that amount of sheer feeling. He just ended up shuddering out another sob and releasing a string of curses that echoed back to him from the porcelain.
Judah flushed the toilet for him and his hand stilled on his back, still radiating the warmth that he so desperately needed. “You didn’t deserve all that, A. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t do that...I’m the one who...fuck,” he panted, words becoming impossible as another wave of nausea wracked his body. A relatively small wash of acid came up with an involuntary burp, but it somehow finally made him feel much better. “I’m th’one who overdid it. Made a fool of myself, look at me,” he finally managed, heart swooping low at the thought of how widely he’d fucked up.
“And I’m the one who dragged you into my stupid tantrum tonight. You’ve never even had the chance to learn your limits, I’m sorry.”
“Learned them now. Wearing the proof.” His poor attempt at a joke fell flat, but it did effectively remind him of the layer of filth sticking his clothes to his skin. He tried hard not to throw up again.
“Right. Let me just—I should get you some clothes. Um, give me a second.”
While he was gone, Arlo put all of his effort towards not thinking about how much he already missed him. It felt pathetic. He shut his eyes and the room tilted; he was definitely still drunk. He didn’t know how all of that worked, so he just sat there and sniffled quietly, trying to ground himself.
When Judah returned with the clothes, he turned on the shower and made sure Arlo would be okay before leaving him to it. The most he could do was undress and sit on the tub floor, letting the lukewarm water fall on him. His head had begun to pound, too, and the fact that it was still spinning made him incapable of doing anything but sitting with his eyes closed.
The stayed there until the water ran cold. It started to make him feel worse, so he shut off the water, climbed out, and dressed himself like he’d just freshly come out of a coma. The bathroom still smelled like sick, and he prayed that his parents wouldn’t come in before he could burn the evidence in the morning. He wished he could burn the evidence from his mind.
Without his permission, the events started to replay, and tears rushed back to his already raw, red eyes. He was exhausted, drunk, embarrassed, and so, so fucking in love. He knew that now more than ever. He was torn between begging Judah to never leave and hiding out in the bathroom forever. As unrealistic as it seemed, he actually tried the latter.
Inevitably, though, a knock came at the door. He had finished washing his mouth out a while ago, but he’d been leaning against the counter in a state of catatonia ever since. His body throbbed.
“Arlo? You okay in there?” His words came out gentle, but Arlo still flinched. He hated himself. Instead of responding, he bit the bullet and opened the door. He hadn’t even realized that he’d been crying the whole time until he watched Judah’s face fall. He looked like he didn’t know what to say. Arlo didn’t either.
Judah led him wordlessly to his bed, and Arlo noticed that the room was nearly spotless. All that remained of his shit-show was the shadow of a stain on the carpet in front of his TV. He imagined Judah there, scrubbing and scrubbing all because Arlo couldn’t control himself. He let himself break then, coughing out a loud sob. Judah startled a bit, pausing before he brought the blankets to cover Arlo’s collapsing chest.
“Hey, hey, it’s alright,” he soothed, a line forming between his brows as his frown deepened.
“No, it—it’s not alright, I’m an idiot.” Arlo’s voice broke and cracked, raw from heaving.
“You’re not an idiot, Lo, I promise.”
Arlo looked up at him, absolutely floored. “Why are you being so nice to me? You’re...”
“An asshole for not watching out for you, that’s what,” he huffs, closing his eyes and letting out a measured breath. “I’m serious...don’t settle for people who treat you like that.”
His voice was just above a whisper then, and it made something icy curl beneath Arlo’s sternum. The guilt radiated off of him almost visibly.
“Don’t let people treat me like this? People who clean my room when I drink too much and puke everywhere? Don’t let them comfort me while I get sick and then put me to bed when I’m finished?” He was on a roll, and he even managed to tone down the remorse on Judah’s face. His words were still a bit fuzzy around the edges and the room still spun, but not too much. Sleep pulled heavily at his aching eyelids, but he never wanted to stop looking at Judah. All of a sudden, everything seemed so right, and he couldn’t stop himself. “No one would ever do this for me. You’re—you’re so good to me, for what, Judah? S’making it really fucking hard not to love you.”
And as soon as it’s out, he wanted it back in. His eyes shot open, and he froze, gaze fixed on the wall behind Judah. More words came up but died in his throat before he could get them out. His whole body ached with searing regret, and time stood still. Another fragmented apology came and went, refusing to fall past his chapped lips. He swore that silence lasted so long that he figured it must be his punishment to live out the rest of his life trapped right there.
Mercifully, Judah’s voice finally broke through the torturous stillness. “I...” he swallowed. “Later, okay? Get some sleep,” he murmured, voice achingly soft. His lips pressed together in the ghost of a gentle smile, and then he was retreating to the padded corner of the floor he’d claimed years ago.
Somehow, it didn’t feel like the end of the world. It really didn’t. But still, if it wasn’t for the glorious, magnetic pull of liquor, Arlo was sure he would’ve never slept again.
Grey was sitting on the floor, slotted in between his bookshelf and his bed. The sun was peeking in just right, painting over his skin with a beam of yellow warmth. It always hit there at that time of day and made it one of his favorite spots.
He was reading Black Beauty for probably the thousandth time, because today, he needed the comfort of some familiarity. When he’d woken up that morning, it had been to a sourly aching stomach, and it refused to go away. He resolved to ignore it, because if he thought about the churning discomfort for too long, he started to believe that he was actually going to throw up.
Just the thought made a syrupy feeling of dread drip down his spine every time it invaded his mind, breaking his skin out in goosebumps. It started to happen again. He brought his knees to his chest, curling further into himself and the now-fading sunbeam. He groaned, shivered yet again, and reached one hand down to knead gingerly at his belly.
Having briefly thought that the tossing feeling was emptiness, he’d made the grave mistake of eating lunch. It sat in one congealed mess at the bottom of his stomach, giving a terrible flip every now and then. He was certain that nothing was digesting, so he tried his best to help the ailing organ along.
Unsurprisingly, his efforts weren’t very helpful, so he eventually gave up and turned back to the nearly crumbling novel in his hands.
So back we went and round by the crossroads, but by the time we got to the bridge it was very nearly dark; we could just see that the water was over the middle of it—
“Fuck!” Roses’ macaw, Pilot, screeched from the living room. Grey closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Sometimes that bird really made him want to jump out of a window. He gave himself a moment and looked back down again.
So back we went and round by the crossroads, but by the time we got to the bridge—
“You’re such a good boy!” Pilot wailed. Grey steeled himself, blocking it out any way he could.
So back we went and round by the crossroads, but—
“Fuck!” Again.
Grey shut the book and set it aside, burying his face in his hands. He was two seconds away from either crying or committing murder.
“Shut up, Pi! No talking right now,” came Rose’s merciful voice. She was the only person he listened to.
Grey’s breath came out in a long puff through his fingers as he tried to calm down. He knew he should he used to this kind of noise by now, but he genuinely didn’t have the stomach for it that day.
Since he’d been distracted from reading, the cramps seemed to come back full force, tugging his insides in unnatural directions. He felt some air climb up his chest, but he swallowed it right back down, refusing to give any part of his stomach permission to come up.
He laid a hand carefully on his roiling tummy and picked up the book again with the other. He read a line, forgot what he read, and started over. This happened a few more times before the door to their bedroom swung open.
“Hey, we’re gonna leave in five. Why aren’t you dressed?” Rose asked with just an edge of frustration.
“Leave to go...?” He started, genuinely fearing the answer.
“Uh, Thanksgiving with my family? The thing I told you about weeks ago? That thing?”
“Thanksgiving was nearly a week ago, I don’t...” he trailed off, swallowing against the rising knot in his throat. “I don’t remember, I’m sorry.”
“Look, it’s fine, just get dressed a little nicer really quick, okay?”
No. “Okay.”
She gave him a soft smile and left the room, allowing the sounds of some home improvement show she was watching to float in. Grey felt a swell of emotion as he stood up and immediately cramped, being forced to double over and freeze. The only reason he didn’t completely collapse back to the floor and admit defeat was because the wave went away rather quickly by some miracle.
He didn’t want to start a fight either, and a sure-fire way to piss Rose off was flaking on plans last minute. He shuffled over to the closet and grabbed a button-down, stopping in the middle of buttoning it to clutch his belly. Another cramp was seizing his insides, but this time, it brought with it a surge of unexpected nausea.
He pressed the knuckles of his free hand to his mouth, unsure of how far this feeling was going to take him. He shuddered again, waiting for the terrible, sick hesitance in the back of his throat to stop. He dared to swallow against the feeling, hoping it wouldn’t send him into a fit of retching; he couldn’t let that happen—he wouldn’t.
He forced himself to take a deep breath as the ache finally wavered and began to dissipate. His legs were shaking with the aftershock of his panic, and the last thing he felt like he could do in this world was face Rose’s relatives.
Still feeling unsteady, he decided to cave and stumble his way to the couch. It seemed like years before he was there, trembling in front of her like a little kid who just woke up from a nightmare. Rose just looked up at him, furrowed her brows at his half-done shirt, and made a face as if to say, ‘what is it now?’
“Rosie, I just...I think I feel too sick to my stomach tonight,” he finally managed, hating the way that once he admitted something, it made it a thousand times more apparent. His lunch gave a sickening whirl right on cue.
“Don’t start that, Grey. You’ve gotta stop getting in your own head like that.” She’s usually totally right about when he’s digging himself a hole, but she couldn’t be more wrong this time. He could feel his insides trembling with a pulsing fever, and this kind of nausea only came when he was truly getting ill.
“I really don’t feel good this time, baby, please,” he nearly begged, feeling all the fight leave him rather quickly.
“You’ll feel better once we get you out of the house. Fresh air n’all that.” Grey was sure his face remained entirely unconvinced. Rose heaved a sigh. “Can we just please do this for my family? I promise we can leave early after dinner and come back to relax. You can read all you want.”
He groaned inwardly knowing he’d lost. He nodded slowly then, trying to force himself to believe that it truly was his mind doing all of this to him. Turning and going back to the room, he finished getting dressed with the speed and grace of a sleepy toddler.
It was time to leave before he even got a chance to breathe it seemed, and they were on the road in no time. Grey tried to pretend like he was still on the floor, feeling the warmth of sunlight brushing his skin. It only worked in short bursts, but he took what he could get.
Thankfully, the drive wasn’t too long, or he would have ended up puking elegantly on the side of the road. He had a few close calls, but those weren’t new.
“Is that my Rose?” came her mother’s voice from the porch where she and Rose’s grandmother sat. They had barely even stepped out of the car and he was about to vomit from exertion.
“Hi momma,” she replied, grabbing onto Grey’s hand to lead him up the driveway despite his body’s protests.
Several hello’s and too-tight hugs later, they were finally past the threshold of their house, and the smell of dinner hit Grey like one hundred freight trains. He tried to conceal the fact that he had to abort several gags, and he resolved to breathe through his mouth for the duration of the visit. He didn’t know how he would ever get through dinner, but he decided he would cross that bridge when he came to it.
He found it terribly difficult to engage in small-talk, even more so than usual. Each time he was prompted to respond about something school or career-related, he feared that more than words would come out. He’d started to sweat, too, but he assumed that was just his fever breaking.
Rose’s claim that he would feel better once they got out of the house was also proving entirely false as he’d unfortunately predicted. As time wore on, he somehow felt even fuller. The tossing in his stomach had escalated to full-on ocean swells, and he had to find creative ways to rub it without anyone noticing.
The air that had threatened to come up earlier was also a constant pressure now, refusing to travel back to his stomach. It got to the point where he couldn’t physically hold it in anymore, so he brought a fist to his mouth and muffled the sound, hoping it would make him feel better.
Spoiler alert—it didn’t. At all.
Instead, it brought up a sour taste and the feeling of something wavering dangerously close to the back of his throat. He swallowed convulsively, trying to remain calm. The bubbling in his stomach didn’t stop either, making a nightmare mixture sort of feeling when the cramps hit again.
That’s when they finally all got called to the table, and he begged the universe for some mercy. “Rosie, I can’t do it, my belly hurts. Please don’t make me,” he whispered, falling back from the group.
“I’m not gonna make you, babe. I just wish you could enjoy this and not have to worry,” she said, rubbing a gentle circle across his stomach and chest. After a few seconds, she turned and continued to walk towards the table.
“But I’m not just worrying,” he protested quietly to no one. He inwardly cursed every time in the past where meeting Rose’s family had made his stomach nervous. Talk about crying wolf. There was really no other option then but to tough it out and go sit down.
He felt a renewed sense of optimism and perseverance for some reason as he took his seat next to Rose. That lasted all of ten glorious seconds before the food began to be dumped onto everyone’s plates.
The food that usually made Grey wish he had three stomachs now made him wish he didn’t even have one—especially this defective one set in reverse. The look of the food suddenly turned morbid, and he got intrusive thoughts of these animals that once used be alive. A twist in his guts made heat burn against his esophagus, and he panicked, bringing his water glass to his lips and forcing a bit down to put out the fire.
He hoped he didn’t look as deathly ill as he felt when he glanced at his finally full plate, but it was probably an empty desire. Not wanting to seem to suspicious, he began to take small bites, swallowing them almost immediately so he wouldn’t have to taste too much.
Another wave of goosebumps erupted across his skin, and he wondered if it was cold enough in the room to merit them or not. He was distracted by this thought for long enough that he hadn’t even realized he’d eaten more.
Even though only about half of the plate was gone, he came to the swift conclusion that he was about to burst into a million tiny pieces. The sounds and smells became too much, each taking their turn giving his stomach a roaring stir. His breath caught with a hiccup, and he felt his dinner start to come back on him.
This is not happening. Do not throw up. Do not throw up. Do not, he inwardly chanted over and over, as if that would actually manifest healing. It felt like an eternity, but it was probably only a few seconds before things really went south.
There was a new feeling in the back of his throat that kept his mouth open just slightly. He felt like everyone was looking at him; he needed to stop, but he couldn’t. He felt dizzy with all of the conversations merging and overlapping one another, and he could feel everything he’d eaten merging in the most unholy way.
He took one glance at the remains of his plate and that was it. An upsurge of thick warmth had him standing in an instant, pushing back his chair with the force. “Excuse me,” he managed to spit out before bailing from the room as fast as his legs would carry him.
Having purposely noted where the restroom was as soon as he’d arrived, he knew it was on the other side of the house. He had no hope of making it there before he would be sick and, he couldn’t risk being violently ill on their carpet. The front door was his only option, so he fumbled to pull it open, choking on the dreadful mixture that entered his mouth.
As soon as he was outside, he bent over the porch railing and let his partially digested dinner come right back up. He instantly regretted his previous choice to not chew very well, because each time a thick wave of sick left his mouth, the horrible texture immediately triggered another heave.
He held onto that railing like a lifeline each time he retched, repeatedly coating the ground below him in a greasy layer of stomach contents. He heard the door open behind him and hoped against hope that it was Rose.
“Oh, hon, I’m so sorry. This is my fault.” She came up behind him and rubbed along his spine as he shook with another deep retch. He felt the flames of mortification lick up his cheeks, and tears rimmed at the edges of his eyes; he refused to let them fall. He gurgled out another heavy stream of vomit, coughing raggedly afterward to get the feeling out of his throat. Static prickled in his vision as his fever most likely came to a peak. He felt fuzzy and uncomfortable, unsure of what was really going on anymore.
“I threw up, Ro,” he managed to whimper, leaning forward again and definitely bringing up his lunch from hours earlier.
“I see that, baby. You don’t have to to talk until you’re done, okay?” She brought her hand up to gently take off his glasses so that they wouldn’t fall off and become collateral damage. He rolled forward with yet another heave. He was crippled with the kind of insatiable nausea that only came when he had the stomach flu. And boy, did he have it bad this time. “Breathe, Grey...God, I’m terrible for bringing you here. You’re breaking my heart, sweet love,” she mumbled lowly.
His stomach never quite stopped lurching, but his heaves were no longer productive after a few minutes, so he figured he was done. He wiped at his eyes and dropped his head down to rest on his arms, letting Rose pet through his hair as he attempted to put himself back together.
“M’really sorry for ruining tonight.” His voice came out raw.
“Hey, don’t even try to apologize, none of this is your fault at all.” He let out a gritty hum as a reply. “Do you feel any better at least?”
He kept his head buried the crook of his arm and finally shook it slowly. He did not feel better in the slightest—just emptier. It felt like someone had carved a hole in his stomach and squeezed everything out with white-knuckles fists.
“That’s awful, I really am sorry...I’m just gonna go grab our things and then I’ll take you home, alright? Be right back.” She placed a kiss on the top of his head, and as he heard her leave, the relief finally started to trickle in. He was going to go home.
Ezra swung the door to Seven’s apartment closed with a little more force than usual but didn’t even flinch at the sound it made. He was more than ready to rant today, so as soon as he made it into the living room, he started.
“You will not believe the kind of shit I went through with Parker today! When I left my room, it took him all of five seconds to get—“ He paused, a frown settling on his features as he looked down at the empty couch. In his rage, he hadn’t even noticed that the apartment wasn’t filled with its usual stream of music either.
He stayed frozen there for a second, flicking his eyes between the empty cushions and the abandoned bowl of popcorn on the table. “Seven?” he tried with some hesitance. Nothing. He could’ve sworn that he was supposed to be off of work by then.
He made his way to the kitchen then, and there was a solitary, half-full glass of water on the countertop. It almost looked like Seven had left suddenly. That thought made Ezra a little uneasy, so he tried to push that thought out of his mind as he made his way to the bedroom.
The door was shut, which was also not normal, so Ezra gave an awkward little knock. “Seven?” he tried one last time. Still nothing. He let out an uneven sigh and finally gave the handle a slow twist, revealing nothing but pitch-black darkness.
He figured he would accidentally kill himself if he tried to stumble to the bed, and there was still no acknowledgement of his presence; he felt he had no other option but to flick on the light.
When he did, it revealed a very Seven-shaped lump hidden under the blankets. He felt himself relax a bit knowing that he was home, but it still didn’t sit right that he wasn’t answering. The feeling clenched a little at his lungs as he stepped closer, finally pulling back the duvet.
Seven was completely knocked out, curled into himself, and paler than Ezra had ever seen him—and that’s saying something. The only color that graced his face was a blotchy scarlet across his cheekbones, and that told Ezra all he needed to know. He fought between letting him sleep and seeing if he needed anything before ultimately deciding on the latter.
Reaching out a careful hand, he placed it gently on Seven’s fever-hot cheek and began to brush his thumb there. “Hey, Sev? Can you wake up for me, babe?” he asked softly, hoping that he was still loud enough to wake him.
Thankfully, Seven began to stir, a low moan escaping through his parted lips. He slowly opened his eyes, but they looked fairly glassy and disoriented. When they finally settled on Ezra’s face, he actually looked like he might cry, which didn’t happen often at all.
“Ez?” His voice came out rough, but that wasn’t a surprise.
“Hi, V. How are you feeling?” He only received another drawn-out groan in response. “Yeah, I figured as much. You’re absolutely scorching, babe. Is there anything I can get for you, like medicine, or tea, or...?”
He paused, because it looked like Seven might have something to say. Instead, he pitched forward and copiously vomited over the edge of the bed. Ezra recoiled a bit in an attempt to avoid the stream, but he just wasn’t fast enough; he was painted from the thighs down with puke. Seven only retched again, adding to the puddle near Ezra’s feet. The nearest bin was all the way in the bathroom, so he decided there was really no use in trying to retrieve it now.
“Oh, Sev. It’s gonna be alright,” he soothed, hearing Seven’s breathing turn more ragged between heaves. It seemed like he was really struggling to keep everything in, choking and sputtering when each wave inevitably forced itself from his mouth. “Just let it come on out, okay? I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”
Ezra took a seat on the edge of the bed, sneaking a hand under Seven’s damp t-shirt and rubbing circles on his back. Each time Ezra thought he might be done, yet another gurgle of sick would splatter against the hardwood. The streams eventually became thicker as his stomach purged the last of his lunch, and they seemed to require much more violent heaves. Ezra winced at every one, especially when they started to become particularly sharp-sounding empty ones.
The gaps between bouts of heaving gradually became longer, and a few minutes into one of his longest, Ezra decided it was time to try and make a dent in the mess. Seven was still hanging over the soiled sheets, trembling with the effort of holding himself halfway upright. “You okay?“ Seven shook his head very slowly, a thick string of saliva still clinging to his bottom lip.
Right, stupid question, Ezra thought briefly.
“Sorry, I know. Um, do you think you’re finished?” In response, Seven gave a minute nod, still refusing to make eye contact. Ezra didn’t blame him, but he just wished there was some way he could reassure him that he didn’t have to feel embarrassed. He sighed softly. “Alright, I’m gonna help you get to the shower then, it’ll make you feel better. C’mere.”
He supported Seven’s weight as he struggled to sit up fully. He finally pulled the vomit-soaked shirt over his head, holding back his own urge to heave. He was also making every effort to ignore the sticky, sour warmth seeping through the front of his jeans.
Once he got Seven to his feet, he let him lean into his side as they made the short trek to the bathroom. Even though it was only a few feet away, it felt like quite a journey to both boys. When they finally made it in, he let Seven sit on the toilet lid and turned on the water.
Leaving only for a moment to gather a change of clothes, he returned to find his boyfriend hunched over and shaking where he’d left him. The sight of him looking so vulnerable made the fist around Ezra’s heart tighten, and he approached him carefully. He began to brush his fingers through the back of his sleep-ruffled hair and rub down his back.
Seven leaned in to bury his face against Ezra’s tummy and groaned, looping his arms loosely around his own stomach. Ezra really didn’t know what he could say to make any of it better, so he just continued to soothe him any way he knew how.
When the water finally got warm, they laboriously finished undressing and climbed in. Without a word, Ezra began to gently wash Seven’s still trembling body, rubbing the cloth across his middle with a little extra care. He closed his eyes and leaned against the tiles, pressing his surely fuming forehead against them to get some relief.
Ezra was almost finished rinsing out his hair when Seven spoke up. It was nothing more than a murmur against the steady stream of water.
“Hm?“
“I need to get out,” he repeated, still in a mumble. “M’dizzy.”
“Oh,” was all Ezra could supply in lieu of a proper response. He turned around and shut off the water, reaching out for their towels on the rack.
They were only half dry before things dipped back downhill. Ezra noticed that Seven was leaning against the countertop, not even making an effort at drying himself off anymore.
“I know you’re tired, baby, but we gotta get dried off before you can sleep.”
“Ezra,” was his only response. It was a strained, wobbly sound, and it caught Ezra off guard a bit.
“What’s the matter?” He was given no answer. Seven swayed a bit and leaned forward. “Hey, don’t pass out on me, V,” he very nearly begged, stepping behind him to help hold him up just in case.
Fortunately, he didn’t faint, but what he did do was bend over and spray the faucet with a stream of yellow-tinted bile.
“Oh shit—uh, okay. It’s okay.” Seven let out what could only be a sort of whimper.
“S—“ A hiccuping, choked retch hitched in his chest. “M’sorry.”
“No, no, I didn’t mean to curse, Sev, it’s totally fine. You really don’t have to apologize, just let it happen,” he reassured, inwardly cringing at how bad he was at this stuff. He pulled Seven’s towel from around his shoulders and began to finish drying him off so he could get to rest sooner. He rubbed the fabric softly up and down the curve of his back as it lurched with heaves.
He finally caught his breath after a few minutes, and Ezra reached around to wipe his mouth with some toilet paper. He remained gentle so he wouldn’t start him up again, but he began to rub his tummy, alternating between going in circles and rubbing back and forth. They stayed silent like that for a moment, and Ezra figured he needed a moment to recover.
“I’m done,” he finally croaked, voice breaking despite the short phrase. Ezra nodded, and they finished getting dressed slowly.
The walk out to the couch was a lazy one, ending with Seven finally collapsing into the cushions. He glanced at the popcorn bowl and groaned, getting his message across perfectly. Ezra pulled it off the table in one swift motion, placing the bin he’d stolen from the bathroom down at the side of the couch at the same time.
Seven curled onto his side, folding his arms over his mercifully empty belly. Ezra momentarily left to retrieve an extra blanket from the closet and the rest of his forgotten water from the kitchen. When he returned, Seven was almost out cold already.
Ezra draped the blanket over his body and smiled sadly; he looked so young like that. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his temple.
“Got you some water, it’s here if you want it, but I’m not gonna make you drink any just yet.” Seven only hummed lowly in response. “Get some rest. I hope you can sleep off whatever this is.”
“Thanks, Ezzy...’nd yeah,” he breathed out, words forming lazily, “I probably shoulda’ been a little more careful when Mrs. T was sick at work las’ week.”
“Maybe. Well, I’m gonna go clean up so you can get back in bed tonight, okay? Your only job is to sleep.” When Ezra was greeted with nothing but the blissful, even breaths of an already sleeping Seven, he couldn’t help but smile.
(Similar pictures for reference are below descriptions, and all pictures are credited to Pinterest. Eye color was edited slightly to match the character.)
Judah Hayes, 18 (he/him) He’s a senior at Royal County High School. He lives with his two cats Percy and Sunny and his dad, because his mother passed away when he was six. His aunt Josie and best friend Arlo are by far his favorite people in the world, and he tries to spend as much time as possible with them to keep sane. He loves drawing and writing even though he isn’t very good, because that’s not the point to him—sometimes he just needs to get things out. Speaking of getting things out, he also unfortunately tends to get sick rather easily, no matter if it’s in the air, water, or on dry land.
Arlo Martin, 18 (he/him). Like Judah, he’s a senior at Royal County High School. Two things about Arlo that anyone who knows him would be certain of is that he loves the frightening beauty of the ocean more than most things, and he thinks that he thinks too much. He worries a lot about what he’ll major in at college, and he tends to change his mind every other day. To distract himself from that pressure, he analyzes every film under the sun. When he isn’t watching movies or at school, he’s working at the cinema down the road purely so he can get credits for he and his best friend Judah to go and watch for free. He lives with his parents and dachshund, Moose, in the house he’s been in all his life. He’s about ten minutes away from Judah, so when Judah shows up unannounced, it isn’t too much of a surprise. They often watch the films together in silence if Judah just needs a place to stay. Most people in his life have said that he’s too nice and will get taken advantage of, but he thinks he doesn’t mind that too much if it means he can help others.
Rose Daugherty, 21 (she/her) She goes to Northwest Ridge University with her friend Ezra and boyfriend Grey. They’ve all known each other since elementary school, and anywhere one goes, the rest follow. She is majoring in biology and has her mind set on working with the rescue and rehabilitation of various endangered bird species. In fact, she owns a rescued scarlet macaw named Pilot, and she doesn’t hesitate to remind Grey that she and Pilot are the real soulmates here. She’s a textbook plant mom as well, keeping her loud, shared apartment filled with all of her pride and joy.
Grey Bancroft, 21 (he/him). He is majoring in English to hopefully become a professor, but if he ends up teaching middle schoolers, he figures that’ll be okay, too. The only thing he loves more than Rose is reading. He spends his free time letting the words spill from various books into his crammed mind, determined to fill it to the brim one day. He has an ever-growing personal library, and if he could take three things with him to a deserted island, it would no doubt be three books of his choice. He has one younger sister, two younger brothers, and two older sisters, whom he loves with his whole heart. Being around chaos is what he knows best, but he’s grown to love his tea and quiet reading very much as well.
Ezra Parrish, 22 (he/him). He goes to college with his best friends Rose and Grey, studying philosophy and minoring in Italian. He wishes more than anything that he could drop almost everything and move there, dragging Rose, Grey, and his boyfriend Seven along with him. Living in dorms isn’t ideal, and he spends most of his time avoiding his roommates. What he actually loves is being outdoors and reminding himself of how small he is in the grand scheme of things; it makes him feel at peace. He still plays the violin when he has the time, but he usually stays busy with his classes and his job at the shitty café on campus.
Seven LaBelle, 22 (he/him). He’s a quiet college dropout, but if anyone asks, he’s just taking a gap year. He’d spent eight years taking care of his grandmother before she slowly passed away, and he spent a year after that truly missing having someone to look after, so he took a job as a personal care aide. He doesn’t mind doing things that others may find terrible, so he figured he should put himself to use. When he’s not at work, he’s in his box of an apartment, listening to an endless stream of every kind of music (most often with Ezra, who has fled from his roommates). Ultimately, he’s just waiting for the day that Ezra packs them all up and moves to Italy.
Josie Clarke, 36 (secondary character) (she/her) Judah’s aunt who has given as much motherly love as she possibly could to her only nephew. She doesn’t have any children of her own, but that gives her more time to take care of any needs Judah may have. He’s at her house often, even if it’s just to sit together. She has two dogs Leia and Ruben who take up her time when she’s not on the computer editing videos for clients.
A/N: This is super long and really self-indulgent, but that’s how I wanted my first story to be. I hope it’s not too much, and I hope you enjoy meeting my boys! //
Judah woke from the dregs of yet another violent sea dream to a sharp whirring sound, and he nearly jumped straight out of his skin. He clutched at whatever he could, still entirely convinced that he was about to be tossed into angry, churning saltwater.
When his senses finally began to trickle back, he found that he was in bed, sweaty fists clenched around his wrinkled sheets. After a moment, he started to wish that he truly was being thrown overboard, because anything would be better than what he was actually waking to. He had himself propped up on an elbow, chest heaving as he watched the door to his bedroom come loose from its frame. He slowly froze, keeping his jaw hung open limply. He was unable to fully wrap his mind around what was happening, because a part of him was still actively fighting not to drown.
He panted, staring bleary-eyed as the last screw was removed. Finally, his door swung open to rest against the hallway, revealing his father with a screwdriver clutched in his hands. Confusion and fear tangled themselves in between Judah’s ribs, and his stomach writhed below his sternum. He realized that he had been panting only when he had stopped breathing completely.
“You think it’s funny to lock your door and not answer me, boy? You think you’re gonna have a door at all after that?” He very nearly growled, standing in the newly placed gap. Judah opened his mouth to ask what was going on, but he couldn’t get a single word out. “Well you’re shit outta luck, kid. I better see you downstairs and ready to go to school in fifteen minutes.”
“I-I didn’t even hear—“
“Fifteen minutes,” he interrupted, turning to leave before Judah could even think about restarting his explanation. He was used to his dad not listening, but that fact didn’t make his skin prickle any less when it happened. He blinked back tears as he glanced at the clock. 7:15.
He deflated, firmly pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes and hunching over into himself. Within that single, quiet moment that he allowed himself, he realized that his day was about to get a whole lot worse. Not only was he doorless and probably going to be late for school, but his stomach was definitely preparing to escape through his mouth.
The heaviness that he’d previously thought was fear was actually the sludge of last night’s dinner pressing up against his esophagus. It tossed and lurched, coating the back of his throat with a sour taste. He groaned lowly, wrapping his arms protectively around the rebelling organ.
There was nothing he wanted more than to just crawl back under his sheets and evaporate, but he was unfortunately on a timer. His father was already pissed, so he didn’t need to stir anything else up; Judah was in absolutely no mood to fight, especially with the way his stomach was threatening to spill over.
He felt the seconds ticking away, so he pulled himself out of bed, feeling the cold hardwood creak under his bare feet. Despite it being the middle of August, his usually stifling room felt much too frigid. He felt trapped in his own skin, getting goosebumps on the outside but frying alive on the inside.
He tried his best to ignore the feeling as he trudged over to his dresser and pulled out the very first t-shirt he landed eyes on. He didn’t have any time nor energy to fuss about his outfit, so he chose his jeans the exact same way. Hating the pressure they put on his already bloated stomach, he sighed, unable to mentally prepare himself for the day ahead.
Don’t cry. Do not cry, he thought desperately, looking at his sullen reflection in the dirty mirror above his dresser. He didn’t have time to sulk; he had to put on some socks. Once he retrieved them, it took everything in his power not to heave when he bent over and pulled them on.
He remained on the edge of the bed for as long as he dared, rubbing gently up and down his tummy as it continued to whirl. He felt sweat gather on his forehead as a cramp tied a tighter knot in his insides, and it suddenly became painfully obvious that he just shouldn’t go to school. The moment he stood from his bed to go downstairs, he actually felt all of the blood drain from his face.
There was too much saliva in his mouth, so he swallowed it down. He swiftly realized that was a bad choice when it stopped halfway down his throat and began to rise instead. A rush of warmth followed closely behind, and he clamped a hand tightly over his mouth, double-timing it to the bathroom down the hall.
His legs felt like jelly as he stumbled to the door, flinging it open and then locking it behind himself quickly. The last thing he needed was his dad walking in to see him trembling in front of the toilet.
He tossed himself to the ground, lifting the seat half a second before his dinner came back on him, splashing into the water and turning it murky. Almost immediately, he puked again, ducking his head farther into the toilet and releasing a thick stream of filth. The taste and smell were so horrible that he couldn’t stop himself from retching a third time, partially missing the toilet on accident. When he got a break from the nausea, he used their thin toilet paper and shaking hands to mop it all up.
God, what did I even eat last night, he silently wondered, having to turn back to the bowl, because he managed to make himself sick again with just the thought of food.
He reached up with a trembling hand after that and flushed the toilet, hoping that would make him less queasy. It helped marginally, but his stomach still wasn’t empty, so he apparently wasn’t in the clear. He burped from the pit of his stomach and it echoed against the porcelain along with the moan that followed.
He felt nearly dead, but after one more good heave, his nausea began to mercifully fade. He laid his head against the rim, not giving a single fuck about how dirty it might have been; it felt good against his fever-blotched skin, and that was all that mattered.
He flushed the toilet again, scraping himself off of the floor to avoid being yelled at. Getting up was a task in itself, and once he was standing, he felt like he could honestly pass out. The only thing keeping him from doing so and never getting back up again was the fact that his stomach felt a whole lot better now that it was empty.
He washed his mouth out in the sink and looked at himself again, cringing at the paleness of his cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes. Apparently sleep paralysis didn’t count as actual rest—go figure. He sighed and left the bathroom, flicking the light off as he walked away.
His legs shook as he brought himself down the stairs, hoping against hope that he hadn’t overstayed his fifteen minutes while he was vomiting his guts out. The resulting argument wouldn’t be pretty, so he held his breath as he turned the corner and entered the kitchen. His father turned around, a frown still etched in his features. Judah almost wondered if he noticed the illness written on his face, but then:
“Where’s your shoes? We don’t have time for you to just stand there, Judah,” he sighed, turning his attention back to his laptop.
“Um...I threw up just a minute ago,” he quietly admitted. It was worth a try.
“Sure you did. Shoes, now,” was his father’s stone cold reply. Judah’s heart gave a pathetic throb, but then there was the thought that at least he hadn’t been yelled at.
He slowly went around the corner and found his sneakers, dreading the fact that he would have to fold over to put them on. The only comfort he had was that his stomach was empty now, so he probably wouldn’t be sick all over the floor. Probably.
He successfully got them on, so he picked up his backpack, which was light from lack of use. Not only was it the beginning of the school year, but he had no real supplies apart from an extra notebook that a classmate had offered him after the first week. He also had a few pens and pencils that he had saved from other years or collected from the floor, but that was pretty much it.
He sniffed in feigned indifference, ignoring the white-hot embarrassment that filled his chest whenever he thought of how much he’d been missing out on. He never thought he’d wish for the simple pleasure of going shopping for school supplies, but here he was. He floated, half lucid, until he somehow found himself in the passenger’s seat of his dad’s Toyota.
He thought absently that his fever must be pretty bad to not remember getting there, but he just couldn’t focus long enough to care. He could only hope that his stomach would be kind and avoid emptying itself on the floorboards.
So far, so good, he thought as they passed the halfway mark, which was the drooping corner store on Briar. He’d spent most of his childhood wealth on candy there, but he hadn’t gone in years.
He tried to keep himself distracted by reading license plates and looking at the same trees he looked at every day. Somehow, it must have worked, because it seemed like only a few minutes had passed before they pulled up to the school. Although, it could’ve been several hours and he wouldn’t have known it, because his brain seemed to be wading through a thick fog. He did not feel good, not at all.
The sound of the doors unlocking brought him back into his body, and he blinked a few times, feeling a little dizzy. He pushed the door open and got out, fighting against vertigo as he reached for his backpack to put it on. He chewed his lip and stood awkwardly, trying to find some way to say goodbye.
“Um, thank you,” is all he managed to come up with. His father gave a short nod and put the car back into drive, which Judah took as his cue to go away. He nodded too before shutting the door and watching the gold paint of the car fade from view.
Other kids were being dropped off, too, but they walked around him as he stayed frozen on the sidewalk. He took one more minute to stand outside and make sure he wasn’t going to throw up again. If he did, he’d much rather do it in a bush than on the classroom floor.
Once he deemed himself safe for the time being, he started on his journey to homeroom, fighting off tears. It seemed like that was too common of an occurrence, and he was tired of it. He was tired in a lot of ways that day.
The second he made it to Mrs. Hayward’s room, he slumped into the first open seat, feeling utterly spent. The first bell hadn’t even rung, and he already felt like falling asleep on the desk. Nothing was really stopping him, so he crossed his arms and buried his face there, closing his eyes in a brief moment of peace.
He hadn’t noticed that he actually drifted off until there was someone gently shaking his shoulder. His head felt like it weighed two tons as he lifted it from his arms, squinting against the assaulting fluorescent lights. He was met by Mrs. Heyward’s concerned face, and it was unfortunately a familiar scene.
“Mr. Hayes, I’m sorry, but the bell has already rung. I don’t want you being late for first block,” she explained, looking him over. He nodded, inhaling deeply and letting it out in a chest-rattling sigh. “Are you alright?” She tacked on the end after watching him struggle to stabilize himself as he stood.
“Yes, ma’am, just didn’t sleep all that well last night,” he half-lied, readjusting the straps of his backpack on his shoulders. He hadn’t slept well for quite a few nights. “Thanks for waking me, I’ll try not to do this so often.”
“My homeroom can always serve as a place to rest if you really need it, you know. I’m always here to help.” And thank God for this woman, because Judah hadn’t realized how much he needed to feel cared for. He didn’t much trust his voice at that point, so he just offered a wobbly smile and nodded, turning to leave before he became unable to stop himself from crying.
As he and a few other students who were bound to be late traversed the halls, he began to feel another cramp gather in his belly. He brought a hand up to rest gingerly against it, wondering if he should just go straight to the bathroom—he was going to be late anyway, after all.
However, as he continued to walk, the cramp passed and was replaced with only slight nausea, so he decided to push forward. He shivered as a chill spread across his skin and ran down his spine, but there was little he could do about the obvious fever he was sporting. The bell rang just before he reached the classroom.
His teacher turned towards him when he entered, and Judah was almost completely prepared to turn right back around and retrieve a late pass. Instead, Mr. Mollohan’s eyes traveled across his face, and whatever words he was going to say faded from his lips. Judah wasn’t about to question it, though, so he just avoided his classmates’ gazes and found his seat.
He was very tempted to just give a repeat performance of homeroom, but a voice next to him caught his attention. He looked over and immediately felt himself relax. How could he have almost forgotten that he shared his history class with Arlo?
“Hey, Jude,” he whispered, eyes flitting between Judah’s. Something like worry settled across his gaze then, and his eyebrows came together in a furrow. “You okay?”
He nodded, suddenly wishing he had brought a jacket. He curled in on himself slightly, his stomach once again becoming the epicenter of his discomfort. The stirring feeling intensified as he gave it attention, sending up an abrupt burst of air that he had to muffle against his fist. The taste reminded him of the lovely chat he had with his toilet earlier that morning, and he fought the rising urge to reenact the scene.
“Are you sure?” Arlo pressed gently, looking quite unconvinced. Judah couldn’t blame him. He shook his head. “Yeah, I really didn’t think so. What’s the matter?”
Judah let the wave of nausea roll over him and pass, finally letting himself breathe once it was gone. “Just kind of sick to my stomach today,” he admitted, hating the way that heat began to creep up onto his cheeks. Arlo’s face softened, and he opened his mouth to say more, but Mr. Mollohan beat him to it.
“Mr. Hayes, do you have something you’d like to share, or can I keep teaching?” He asked, making several heads turn in Judah’s direction. His face was undoubtedly scarlet by that point, and he couldn’t respond with anything but silence. He wished he was as actually as invisible as he usually felt. “Alright, thank you,” he spoke up again, continuing to teach.
The stares faded thankfully, but he could still feel one. He looked over to see Arlo mouth, ‘My fault, I’m sorry.’ Judah just looked down and fumbled with the hem of his shirt under the desk, feeling sufficiently mortified. That day was quickly falling into that special category which he’d like to physically erase from everyone’s mind.
He let himself fall into that limbo state of half-awake-half-dead to pass the time, and he only came to when his stomach started to hurt so much that he couldn’t ignore it anymore. He pressed a fist against his abdomen and suppressed a groan, curling further into himself. The sloshing had returned, and he didn’t know how his stomach had managed to find something to toss around.
The sweating returned too, which made no sense, because he knew he was visibly shivering. The sickness was crashing over him in waves, bringing back unsettling memories of his nightmare. He suddenly realized that maybe this bug was the whole reason that his brain had put him out at sea in the first place.
He quickly came to the conclusion that he would hurl all over his lap if he didn’t stop thinking about being on a boat, so he actually put forth the effort to listen to the lecture. He could hear blood rushing in his ears as he watched his teacher scribble something on the whiteboard with a neon green marker, and the combination of sensory input was dizzying to say the least.
He was getting a bit upset, because the weight of malaise and pointlessness was seeping into his bones. Why was he even at school? Why hadn’t he just taken an emotional or physical beating and stayed home? He finally gave in to the heaviness, letting his thoughts drag his head to lay down with a quiet moan.
He didn’t sleep, but when he did crack his eyes open, there were only twenty minutes left of that class. He knew he could make it, he just had to be very careful. There was a limited amount of things he could think about that wouldn’t increase his nausea, and he was doing his best to stay within those limits.
Inevitably, after about five minutes of counting how many tiles were on the floor, intrusive thoughts started to creep in. He thought about how he still had three entire classes after this one, and lunch in between.
No, no, no. Not lunch. Fuck.
His heart began to thud unnaturally, so he quickly transitioned to grounding himself, looking around the room and listing several items as he saw them. His insides were still trembling once he felt relatively calm, but at least he wasn’t going to have a panic attack in the middle of the classroom. Not again.
He sighed and looked at the clock, realizing only about ten minutes had passed. What torture. But, that also meant that he would only have to endure another segment of what he had already just endured, and he figured he could do it.
The grounding exercise even helped his stomach settle a bit too, so he could relax just a little. Every now and then, he could feel the weight of Arlo’s gaze on him, but he lacked the energy to look over and verify the attention. He was also sort of embarrassed that Arlo had to see him like that, but it unfortunately wasn’t the first time; Judah’s stomach didn’t exactly have the best track record.
He buried those memories as far back as he could in order to survive the remaining minutes of class. He sat in a daze, staring at the grooves in the wall until his vision went fuzzy and he had to blink. He felt sort of like his personality had poured out into the toilet with last night’s dinner and left him hollow. Either that, or he’d been filled with something so stifling that he simply didn’t have room to be himself anymore.
Neither of the possibilities were particularly cheerful, so he tried his best to just focus on the fact that despite his dullness, someone still cared. He let his eyes wander to Arlo and watched as he copied something off of the board. He looked up again, tilting his head, as if that would help him listen more carefully. It was more than a little endearing, and it provided the perfect distraction from the state of his day.
He continued to watch him, making little mental notes of the way he carded pale fingers through his jet black hair every so often or how he sometimes flicked his tongue over his bottom lip. They were all images that he wanted to keep locked away in a secret little box in his mind—ones for when he forgot what the world could look like.
His green eyes eventually flicked over to meet Judah’s gaze, and Judah was brought straight back to reality. He let his eyes flicker away for a second before returning to Arlo’s, and it almost felt like his thoughts were being stolen right from his brain. He felt too vulnerable all of a sudden, but he was saved, because the bell rang that very second to dismiss them.
He let out a breath that he didn’t know he’d been holding and looked down at his hands for the millionth time. His distraction was gone now, and he was all too aware of the fever blazing in his skin. A feeling of chilling dread swept over his whole body when he realized he wasn’t anywhere near being done with his day; the torture was just getting started.
Suppressing another low groan, he started to pack up. Then, he realized that he hadn’t actually brought out his notebook to begin with, so he didn’t have anything to pack. He stood up, placing his bag back on his shoulders and steadying himself with the desk. A static darkness crept into the corners of his vision, and he had to give himself a second so he wouldn’t pass out.
When he opened his eyes, most of the students had vacated the classroom, but not Arlo. He was still standing right next to his desk and probably had been watching the whole time. Judah’s body gave a feeble attempt at blushing. He cursed his hands for trembling as he readjusted the straps of his bag.
“You’re really feeling bad, aren’t you, Jay?” He asked quietly, eyes flickering down to Judah’s hands and back up to his eyes.
“I’ll be alright,” he answered, unsure of who he was trying to convince. It sure didn’t look like Arlo was convinced. He stepped around his desk then, coming close enough to reach out and touch his forehead.
“I think you should probably go home, Judah. You’re definitely running a fever,” he announced, but Judah already knew that. The word home always made him feel funny, too, like he might be missing out on an inside joke. He just shrugged.
“Wouldn’t have a way to my house even if I wanted to go,” he admitted. Arlo quieted, and it looked like he was thinking. He cast his gaze to the floor and shifted his weight.
“Just promise me you’ll let me know if you get worse, okay?” He finally said.
“I promise.”
Arlo nodded and gave him a small smile before turning around and leaving. Judah still felt a little on fire from being cared for, and he had to remind himself to start going to his next class before he was late again.
The entire walk to second period was a fever dream. His vision was swimming a bit, and what were usually normal conversations in the hallway sounded like a foreign language. His legs were heavy, like he was wading knee-deep in syrup.
By the time he got to the classroom, he was asleep on his feet. At least he wasn’t late.
The desks had been pushed together, signaling that they’d be working in groups. He fought against the urge to cry out of pure frustration, because of course the day he feels like evaporating is the day he has to deal with ‘team building’. This was absolutely turning out to be the day from hell.
He wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead and sat down at one of the groups, hoping he could fly under the radar. No one looked up from their phone, so he figured he was in the clear. He laid his head on his desk for the third time that day, planning on sleeping as much of his group work away as possible. Unfortunately, the bell rang and his teacher tapped his shoulder as she walked by, which was her usual way of saying ‘head up before I make you’. He didn’t particularly want to feel her wrath, so he propped an arm under his chin and tried his best to listen.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he couldn’t help but look. It wasn’t too surprising that it was already Arlo.
Seriously, let me know if you need to leave. I can always drive you.
He felt a stirring in his chest, but it might’ve just been his nausea returning. After all, he’d had a few too many consecutive moments of peace. He rubbed at his eye and typed out his response.
Okay mom
It was his best attempt at dissolving the situation with humor, but it came off a little half-hearted. He locked his phone and sighed when he saw himself staring back in the darkness of the screen. He slipped his phone back in his pocket, finally looking at the paper that had been placed on his desk. He wondered how he hadn’t noticed that the other people at his table were already beginning to work.
“Um,” he said to no one in particular, looking over the paper before he realized that he kind of had no idea what he was supposed to do. He thought about asking a question, but then the familiar sensation of nausea wavering in his throat kept his words locked away.
Eventually, he just began to pick up on what everyone else was doing, listening in on their conversations and copying their answers—it was team work, after all, so he wasn’t cheating exactly. He tried not to feel too guilty about it. Fortunately, or maybe not so fortunately, his mind was occupied with other things, like aborting the gags that threatened to tug at his throat.
Suddenly, when he was nearing the end of the assignment, his teacher spoke up again. “Alright, clear your desks and arrange them back into lines.” And, what?
All the students around him seemed unfazed, putting away their textbooks and binders immediately. Judah felt frozen for a moment, unsure of why they were changing lanes so abruptly. As soon as he could get his limbs back into working order, he decided to just go along with it. He hoped he would at least have time to finish the last couple of questions on the sheet.
Once their desks were back in their usual arrangement, everyone around him settled in and took out a pencil. He looked back down to complete the sentence he’d been interrupted on and caught a glimpse of the title he’d ignored.
Exam Review.
What in the fuck?
“Phones away in bags, I don’t even want them in your pockets, alright?” No, no, no no no. Please be a joke. “You have the rest of the class to complete the exam. Please bring it up to me and quietly return to your seat in the event that you finish early. Any questions before we begin?”
No, no, this is not happening. We aren’t supposed to have a test until...fuck, it is Thursday, isn’t it?
He suddenly felt impossibly ill. The emotion in his body didn’t know where to go, so it ricocheted wildly off of his skull and much-too-warm skin. His stomach audibly complained, and he begged for it to just give him a little more time before it clawed its way up his throat.
He received his exam packet and numbly passed the others behind him, refusing to look just yet. His teacher’s voice was distant and tinny as she announced that they could start. He took another moment and then finally looked down.
From the very first question, he could tell that he was going to fail miserably. The words began to swirl and mix together on the page, and he was sure that if anyone looked at him, they’d see his brain leaking from his ears. His heart thudded heavily as the suffocating frustration of the day began to compound.
It was inevitable; fat tears began to well up in his eyes, and he didn’t even have to blink for them to splatter onto the page. He tried not to sniffle or call any attention to himself, because he was embarrassed enough without anyone knowing that he was crying all over his paper.
A hiccup hitched in his chest, and he couldn’t tell if it was from illness or holding back tears. He rubbed at his eyes and just tried to remember how to breathe, because it was no use trying to do the test at that point. He wasn’t prepared, not in the slightest. He reckoned that was his own fault as usual.
While he sat slumped in defeat, his stomach began to rebel more than ever. The ache was constant, wrenching every now and then with the threat of expelling its pathetic contents. It was never enough to make him move from his seat, but he figured after a while that he might as well finish the test so he could leave if he really needed to.
He removed his hands from his tear-stained face and picked his pencil back up, beginning to circle random answers. He circled and circled without thinking, because frankly, he was spending all of his available energy on not redecorating the classroom. By the time he was done, his face was red and raw with tears from imagining his father’s reaction to what his grade would be like.
He got up from his seat and turned in his test face down, keeping his gaze averted at all costs. He silently returned to his desk as instructed and buried his face in the crook of his elbow. He desperately wanted to text Arlo, but the last thing he needed was to get caught with his phone and get his grade deducted further.
Each second of silence gnawed at his chest, and he had to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep quiet as fresh waves of emotion rolled over him. His belly hurt, and he predicted that he probably had less than an hour before he would be seeing his dinner again. That thought made the chains around his lungs tighten, and his breath hitched with a quiet sob.
The rest of the test went similarly, and the sound of the bell brought Judah such great relief that he actually stopped crying. He gathered his things and pulled out his phone, trying to blindly select Arlo’s contact as he left the room as fast as possible. His stomach was sitting high in his throat, and each time a sob pulled at his sternum, he thought he might be sick.
His body was on autopilot as he pulled up his messages and started typing out his SOS to Arlo, and so he ended up in the overwhelming bustle of the cafeteria. Sensory overload was about to make him panic. He could smell the pizza and nearly imagine the taste from where he stood. Something dangerously vile gurgled low in his stomach. He was absolutely going to vomit.
Suddenly, he was jolted from the terrible sensation when he spotted Arlo standing up from their usual table. Seeing his face made everything so much better and so much worse simultaneously, and when he approached, Judah couldn’t help but crumble.
“Oh, Jude, please don’t cry...what’s going on? Is it your tummy?” He asked, turning him towards he wall to shield him from the glares of onlookers. He couldn’t help but cry harder at the question, because everything was going on; it was everything. Arlo didn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around him and bring him close.
“It’s—I just totally bombed an econ test that I didn’t even know I h-had,” he cried, turning so that his face was pressed against Arlo’s chest. He hiccuped again, wheezing when he tried to recover.
“Hey, hey, breathe for me. We can something out with your teacher, alright? It’ll be okay.”
“She—she’ll call my dad, she said she would next time I failed. Fuck, Arlo, I’m—I’m so fucked,” he panted. He felt his stomach turn in the chaos, and mid-panic, he choked up some bile.
He swallowed it back down by reflex, but his stomach certainly didn’t appreciate the action. He could feel a retch swelling up against his ribs, but he did his best to hold it back. It felt like the corners of the room were folding in, and the roar of the cafeteria had become a distant hum. Arlo was talking to him, but he couldn’t make out the words anymore. He predicted that he had about sixty seconds before he’d be yacking in front of everyone.
“I...I’m going to get sick,” he managed to warn, pulling back from Arlo’s embrace.
Not even a second later, he found himself being pulled away from the cafeteria. It took him extra effort not to trip over his own feet as he barreled down the hallway, one hand clamped over his mouth. His stomach clenched, and he retched dryly into his palm.
“Wait just a second, J, we’re literally almost there,” Arlo begged, turning them around one last corner. Judah’s eyes were filled with unshed tears of exertion by the time they finally got to the boys’ bathroom.
As soon as they passed the threshold, a burp forced its way up from the pit of his stomach, bringing with it a pale stream of vomit to splatter onto the tiles. Arlo let out a quiet string of curses from beside him and led him the rest of the way until he was collapsed in front of the toilet.
“I really don’ feel good, Lo,” he whimpered, clutching at his middle.
“I’m sorry,” he replied, but an apology wasn’t going to help Judah. He felt a tidal wave of nausea hit his chest, and he had to pitch forward with another dry heave.
It caused a cork to come loose somewhere in his body then, and streams of hot stomach acid began to splash repeatedly into the bowl. It was a pathetic amount, simply because he was already running on empty. He was so achingly dizzy that the world tilted around him even though he knew he was gripping onto a stationary toilet. With each heave, the pressure compounded, and he was just that much closer to passing out. He could feel Arlo rubbing circles on his back, but nothing mattered in that moment except the purge of whatever demons had entered his body while he slept.
“It’s gonna be okay, Judah, just get it all up,” he encouraged, and that was when Judah realized he had begun to cry again. Apart from the few thin streams of bile and acid that came up at first, he had nothing left to offer. It became a horrible, tearing feeling every time he needed to retch, and he almost wished he had gotten the chance to eat lunch before he had to puke.
Mercifully, his stomach stopped contracting a couple minutes later, leaving him a drooling mess over the tainted water. He started to slowly recover his senses one by one, and mortification seeped in through the cracks of his mind. It flooded through his body in waves of heat, leaving him shivering wildly in between.
After a few minutes, he became unable to distinguish if they were actually waves of heat or just simply breaks between the chills that spread over his skin. He didn’t have the energy to think about it anymore, so he let himself fall back against the only thing there: Arlo.
“I’m sorry, Jay, that was awful. I swear I didn’t know you were this sick or I would’ve taken you home earlier,” he lamented, still rubbing soothingly across his back. Judah curled up in the small space and unashamedly placed his head in Arlo’s lap.
He’s gonna take me home? Can’t go home, Judah’s brain supplied, but then he realized after a moment of waiting that he hadn’t even said it out loud.
“Can’t go home,” he tried again, successful this time.
“Why not? You’ve just turned yourself inside out in a school bathroom, you can’t just stay.”
“Dad,” is all he could manage to say. He didn’t want to cry anymore.
Arlo went quiet with understanding then, hand stilling on Judah’s back. “I could take you to my place and let you rest until you have to go. I’ll make sure you’re back by the time you usually get home,” he offered quietly. Judah’s fever was spiking, and he couldn’t quite tell if the offer was sincere. “I mean, we could stay in the bathroom and skip class, but we’re skipping class either way.” We? He was going to stay with him even if he remained plastered on the floor until the very last bell? Judah would cry if he wasn’t so dehydrated.
He just shook his head by way of answering, hoping that Arlo got the point. It seemed like he did, because he reached up to flush the toilet.
“Wait, are you sure you’re finished? Not much came up.”
“S’cause I already threw up this morning,” he admitted, voice raw.
“What? When?”
“My house,” he managed, trying not to fall asleep right there against the warmth coming from Arlo’s hoodie.
“Alright, that’s it. I’m taking you to my place right now, no arguments.”
But Judah wasn’t about to argue. If he finally felt the first bit of happiness in his day trickle in at that moment, no one had to know.
Hey guys! I’ve been working on some stories with original characters, and I want to post them pretty soon. This community is so supportive that I just wanted to say thank you even though I’ve been under the radar on here for quite some time. I’ll be posting soon, so let me know if you’re interested in reading some emeto or hurt/comfort work.
Update: I posted my first fic with two of my original character, feel free to ask any questions! thank you to anyone who reads!
you know what’s really fantastic to read??? a character who has been in isolation or mistreated and starved for so long finally gets a meal, and they dig in without thinking about it. their stomach isn’t ready for a whole meal like that, and they suddenly realize they’re going to be sick and lose the food they waited so long for.
last night, one of my guy friends was so drunk and we were having an amazing time as a group. I went to go down to the little beach and he was doubled over the grass. I didn’t think much of it at first because I was too drunk, but then I heard him retch and I absolutely f r o z e. I was like “oh my god, are you throwing up?” and he said “yeah” and then continued to empty his stomach on the ground, so I came closer and started to rub and scratch his back. my life was kind of flashing before my eyes, so it was amazing and out of body all at once. when it seemed like he was done, I asked if he wanted a bottle of water. he said yes, so I went inside and grabbed him one, delivering it back immediately. as he sat down recovering for a while, I brought him two more waters. we somehow ended up going onto the second story of a dock for the lake, and it was swaying and shifting on the water. he laid down on a bench with a blanket and tried to engage with us every now and then. after a while, I suddenly realized that he was leaning over the edge and I heard my other friend go “what was that??” and it was the sound of his stomach contents splattering into the water below. he threw up so much, pouring his stomach out into the lake over and over. I felt so bad for him, so when he was done, I asked him again if he wanted water or wanted to wait, and he said water would be great. I went back inside and got the water, bringing it out to the poor boy. I felt so bad for him, but I’ve never felt more soft than when I was scratching his back as he threw up. 🥺
so, i just puked. like intensely. like, 10 times. so me and my friends were really high or whatever and i ate some brownies from dominos and then i asked my friend to buy me 10 mcdonald’s chicken nuggets and a large fry with a water. so i’m super hungry and they show up and i scarf it down and i mean SCARF. it was sitting in my tummy pretty heavily, and i knew we had a car ride ahead of us to drop our friend off. but oh well too late by then. so we go to drop him off and i hit my friends juul like 97 times and i have my eyes closed the whole time. then on the way back, i hit the juul again and felt sick. i figured it was just because of the car, so i was like, you’ll be fine if you make it home. so like, i’m swallowing my stomach on the way home and trying not to puke in her car. miraculously, we make it to my house and up the stairs. i start to feel really sleepy, so i put my vape on the charger and stand there, asleep on my feet. my belly is full and my eyes won’t stay open, so i take it off the charger and go lay down just as my friend brings me some water. i take a few gulps, thinking it will wash away the leftover nausea. in reality, i was just adding more to a way overfilled stomach. i laid back down and turned off the light, really feeling my guts start to churn. something wasn’t sitting right at all, and i sat up, pretending to remember that i hadn’t taken my tampon out. i said “oops. left my tampon in.” and left the room, making a joke about it. my voice sounded very strange and shaky, and i recognized it from last time i puked my guts out. i was starting to panic as i locked myself in the bathroom. i started to pace and beg myself not to throw up, but something was definitely bubbling up my throat. again, i was convinced that i just needed to burp and would be fine. i rubbed at my upset tummy and leaned against the doorframe as i tried to let out a strangled burp. there was definitely something coming up, but i was still in denial, so i kept trying. suddenly, my throat and stomach clenched with a deep gag. my cheeks puffed out with the force of it, and i’d brought my dinner up on the first try. i brought a hand to my mouth and threw up in it, rushing to the toilet to let it fall there. “i’m fine now, i’m fine, it was just a little slip up.” i kept repeating that to myself as i tried to clean off my hand, nothing seemed fast enough, so i bolted to the sink. still i repeated “you’re fine, just clean your hand.” but then it turned into “don’t think about how your stomach is still full and churning, don’t think about the mcdonald’s, don’t think about the water, don’t think about the large fry, don’t do it.” i was clearly going downhill, and my stomach was so upset. As i washed my hand off, my belly lurched again, filling my mouth with half-digested mcdonald’s. i tried in vain to keep it in my mouth until my hand was clean, but i ended up pitching forward and spitting it out. once the dam was open, it was open. over and over i forcefully vomited into the sink. it was very chunky and hard to choke out, but at the same time, it flowed out of me like fuckin niagra falls. i stepped back after my stomach was empty and settled, and i looked at the huge pool of sick in front of me. i’d filled up the whole sink with with my stomach contents and that was crazy to me. i feel so much better now, and i can’t wait to sleep. wish someone was rubbing my stomach though.
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