ooh Iâve been a sucker for sick before/during a performance lately and i deeply adore your fics!! so maybe any of the members of lex and sorenâs band trying to make it through a performance or a recording session while feeling absolutely awful? your choice of who!
absolutely! i added that into this WIP i had of a very sick soren.
if you have any more requests, comments, concerns, etc., send them my way!
tw for emeto (lots of emeto), fevers, sick on tour.
The world outside was a blur of lights and movement, the faint hum of the city filtering through the window of their tour bus as they rolled into the next stop.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale coffee and equipment, a familiar atmosphere that Lex had long since come to associate with life on the road.
But tonight, the usual energy was subdued, the dim lights casting long shadows across the cramped space, adding to the quiet heaviness that hung in the air.
Soren lay curled on the narrow bunk, his back pressed against the wall, his eyes squeezed shut, every shallow breath a careful, measured effort to keep the nausea at bay.
Heâd been fighting it for hours now, a low, insistent ache that had started as a vague discomfort, a faint queasiness heâd hoped might pass with a little sleep. But as the hours dragged on, the nausea had settled in deeper, twisting in his stomach like a clenched fist, leaving him feeling weak, hollow.
Lex sat beside him, his hand resting lightly on Sorenâs shoulder, his fingers tracing gentle, absent-minded circles against the fabric of his shirt.
The touch was grounding, a steady presence that kept Soren anchored, even as the sickness gnawed at him, a relentless pressure that refused to ease.
Lexâs long, dark hair fell over his shoulder in soft waves, a few loose strands brushing against Sorenâs arm as he leaned in, his gaze fixed on Soren with a quiet, unspoken concern that cut through the haze of discomfort, a reminder that he wasnât alone.
âDo you want some water?â Lexâs voice was soft, a quiet suggestion that lingered in the air, a gentle nudge that didnât press, didnât demand, just offered a small, fragile comfort.
Soren shook his head, the movement slow, deliberate, as though even the slightest shift might set off the nausea again. His hand drifted to his stomach, his fingers pressing lightly against the ache, a small, useless gesture that did nothing to ease the discomfort but brought him some measure of focus, a distraction from the relentless churn in his gut. He could feel the cool sweat on his forehead, a faint, clammy dampness that left him feeling feverish, weak, a quiet, unyielding reminder of the sickness that had settled in deep, refusing to let go.
Lexâs hand drifted up to Sorenâs hair, his fingers brushing through the pale strands in a soft, rhythmic motion, a small, grounding gesture that seemed to ease some of the tension, the weight pressing down on him.
Soren leaned into the touch, his breathing shallow, each inhale and exhale a careful effort as he fought to keep the sickness from overtaking him, from dragging him under.
âIâm sorry,â he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, a faint, strained apology that lingered in the air, tinged with the quiet frustration of his own bodyâs betrayal. He hated feeling like thisâweak, dependent, a weight on Lexâs shoulders when he knew they both had enough to worry about.
Lex shook his head, his hand moving to Sorenâs back, a steady, reassuring touch that eased the tightness in Sorenâs chest, the quiet anxiety that had been gnawing at him since the nausea had set in. âDonât apologize,â he replied softly, his tone warm, a quiet reminder that he was here, that he didnât see this as a burden, that he didnât mind the weight. âJust focus on breathing. You donât have to push through this alone.â
Soren took a slow breath, his head dipping as he closed his eyes, willing the nausea to ease, to give him even a momentâs reprieve. But the sickness clung to him, a low, insistent ache that twisted deeper, sharper, with every passing moment.
His stomach clenched, a fresh wave of nausea rolling over him, sharp and relentless, leaving him gasping for breath, his body tensing as he tried to fight it down, to hold it back.
But the sickness refused to be ignored, clawing its way up, relentless, and he barely had time to brace himself before his body gave in, a harsh, involuntary heave that left him breathless, his hand flying to his mouth as he fought to keep the sickness from overtaking him completely.
Lexâs hand moved to his shoulder, a steady, grounding touch that kept him anchored, kept him from slipping into the discomfort entirely.
âHey,â Lex murmured softly, his voice a quiet, steady presence that cut through the haze, grounding Soren in the warmth of his touch, the gentle reassurance that he didnât have to carry this alone. âJust breatheâIâm right here.â
The nausea surged again, sharper this time, an insistent pressure that left him trembling, his body betraying him in ways he couldnât control. Lexâs hand moved to the back of his neck, his fingers warm, comforting. He could feel the faint, damp chill of sweat beading along his forehead, a quiet reminder of his own weakness, the vulnerability heâd never quite learned to accept.
Lex pulled him forward a bit, getting Soren to lean over the edge of the bunk, where despite Sorenâs will, his lunch made an unappetizing reappearance into the plastic bin Ksenia pushed in before she took her residence in the living area of the bus. Ksenia was never one for caretaking, so she left ample space for Lex to do his thing.
When the worst of it passed, Soren slumped back, his breathing shallow, uneven as he tried to steady himself, to catch his breath. He closed his eyes, his hand pressed against his stomach as he fought to keep the nausea from rising again, the sickness a low, relentless ache that left him feeling hollow, weak.
Lexâs hand drifted to his shoulder, his fingers brushing through Sorenâs hair in a small, soothing gesture, a quiet, grounding presence that kept him steady, a reminder that he didnât have to bear this alone.
âYouâre okay,â Lex murmured, his voice soft, a gentle reassurance that lingered in the air, a warmth that seemed to cut through the discomfort, to settle over Soren like a blanket, easing the tension, the weight that had been pressing down on him.
Soren managed a faint nod, though he could feel the nausea lingering, a quiet, insistent ache that refused to ease, a reminder of his own bodyâs betrayal. He could feel the exhaustion settling into his bones, a heaviness that left him feeling drained, hollow, and he closed his eyes, willing himself to hold it together, to keep the sickness from overtaking him completely.
âThink you can rest a little?â Lex asked, his hand resting lightly on Sorenâs shoulder, a quiet question that lingered in the air, a reminder that he didnât have to push through this, that he didnât have to hold it all alone.
Soren nodded as he let out a slow, careful breath, his hand resting on Lexâs knee, a small, grounding touch that kept him steady, kept him anchored in the warmth of Lexâs presence.
He knew, on some level that he had someone beside him, someone who saw him, who understood. But the thought of leaning on Lex, of letting himself be vulnerable, left him feeling exposed, fragile, a quiet discomfort that he couldnât quite shake.
âIâll be okay,â he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, a faint, unsteady assurance that lingered in the air, a quiet hope that he could hold it together, that he could push through, if only for a little longer.
The hours wore on, and the low ache in Sorenâs stomach refused to ease, twisting and tightening until it felt as though every breath, every small movement, was a battle against the nausea that seemed to coil deeper, sharper with each passing moment.
He lay there, curled in on himself, his forehead pressed against the cool wall of the bunk, his breaths shallow, careful, as though even the slightest shift might tip him over the edge.
Lex hadnât moved from his side, his hand a steady, comforting presence on Sorenâs back, tracing gentle circles, the rhythm grounding, familiar. He could feel Lexâs gaze on him, warm and concerned, a quiet, unspoken question that lingered in the air, a reminder that he didnât have to bear this alone, that he could lean into the comfort, the support Lex offered so freely.
âYouâre really not looking great,â Lex murmured softly, his voice barely more than a whisper, a gentle observation laced with concern. âIâve got some ginger tea I could make, or⊠I have something stronger if you want.â
Soren managed a faint shake of his head, the movement slow, hesitant, as though he were trying to push past the discomfort, to hold onto the fragile control heâd managed to scrape together.
The thought of taking anything felt distant, unreal, his focus turned inward, fixed on the relentless ache, the quiet, insistent nausea that gnawed at him, leaving him feeling hollow, weak. Soren wasnât even sure if he could hold it down, tea or otherwise. So, why bother?
But Lex didnât push, just shifted slightly, his hand moving to rest on the back of Sorenâs neck, his fingers warm, steady, a small, grounding touch that seemed to ease some of the tension coiling in Sorenâs chest, a warmth that cut through the sickness, the discomfort, if only by a fraction.
Soren leaned into the touch, letting out a slow, unsteady breath, his body slumping, the exhaustion settling over him like a weight, leaving him feeling drained, empty.
The nausea crested, sharp and insistent, a fresh wave that twisted in his stomach, leaving him breathless, his hand gripping the edge of the bunk as he fought to keep the sickness at bay, to push it down, to hold it back.
But his body betrayed him, the nausea rising with a force that left him gasping, his throat tight, his stomach clenching painfully as he felt the sickness clawing its way up, relentless, unyielding.
Lex was there in an instant, his hand moving to Sorenâs shoulder, a steadying touch that kept him grounded, that kept him from slipping into the discomfort entirely.
âOkay, okay my love, Iâve got you,â Lex murmured softly, his voice a quiet, steady reassurance that cut through the haze, grounding Soren in the warmth, the familiarity of his presence. âJust breatheâitâs alright.â
But the nausea refused to let go, clawing its way up with a force that left him trembling, his body giving in to the sickness in harsh, involuntary waves. He barely had time to lean over the trash can before his body gave in completely, each heave leaving him breathless.
His throat burned, the acidic taste sharp and bitter, a reminder of his own bodyâs betrayal, the vulnerability he could never quite accept.
Lexâs hand moved to the back of his neck, his fingers gentle, soothing, a small, familiar touch that kept him steady.
âItâs okay,â Lex murmured, his voice a quiet, constant presence, a warmth that settled over Soren like a blanket, easing the weight, the discomfort that had been pressing down on him.
The sickness dragged on, each wave sharp, relentless, leaving Soren weak, breathless, his hand gripping the edge of the trash can as he fought to hold himself together, to keep the nausea from overtaking him completely.
He could feel the cold sweat on his forehead, a faint, clammy dampness that left him shivering, his skin pale, drawn, a reminder of his own weakness, the quiet shame that lingered beneath the discomfort.
When the worst of it passed, he slumped back, his body sagging against the bunk, his breathing shallow, uneven, each inhale a careful, measured effort to keep the sickness from rising again. He could feel the exhaustion settling into his bones, a heaviness that left him feeling hollow, weak, and he closed his eyes, willing the nausea to ease, to give him even a momentâs reprieve.
Lex reached into his bag, pulling out a small orange bottle. Soren heard the familiar rattle of pills in plastic. It was only then he realized he probably threw up the antipsychotics and did not, in fact, want to face trying again even if he feared what might happen without them.
âDonât worry, itâs not those meds,â Lex said, Soren wondered if Lex could read his mind, âIâve got some anti-nausea meds. They work wonders, really. Itâs what made me stop puking during our New York stops.â
Soren hesitated, even as the nausea twisted, sharper now, a relentless ache that refused to let go. But Lexâs gaze was steady, warm with an unspoken encouragement that settled over him.
And, Soren thought, Lex had been vomiting for days, unrelated to some sort of virus, during their four stops in New York. And if what Lex said was true, that he took it then, it really did work wonders.
With a slow, shaky breath, Soren gave a faint nod, his hand drifting to Lexâs, a small, reluctant acceptance of the care that Lex offered so freely.
Lex offered a faint, reassuring smile, his fingers brushing against Sorenâs as he opened the bottle.
Lex handed him a pill and a small glass of water, his touch steady, gentle, a quiet reassurance that seemed to ease some of the tension coiling in Sorenâs chest, a warmth that cut through the sickness, the discomfort, if only by a fraction.
âThis should help,â he murmured softly, his voice a quiet, steady encouragement that kept Soren grounded, even when everything felt so miserable.
Soren took the pill, the cool water soothing against his throat, a small comfort that settled over him like a blanket, easing the sharp, relentless ache that had been gnawing at him.
And as he leaned back, he let himself breathe, let himself sink into the warmth, the comfort that Lex offered, a small, fragile acceptance that settled over him, a reminder that he didnât have to bear this alone.
Lex stayed beside him, his hand resting on Sorenâs shoulder, Soren let himself lean into the comfort.
The nausea lingered, a low, insistent ache that refused to ease entirely, but with Lex beside him, with the gentle, constant touch of his hand, Soren felt a small, precious peace, a comfort that cut through the discomfort, that reminded him he wasnât alone.
And as he closed his eyes, letting himself sink into the warmth, the familiarity of their connection, he felt the quiet, grounding reassurance that he didnât have to carry this alone, that he didnât have to face it all on his own.
Morning brought a tentative hope that the worst of the sickness had passed. Soren lay on the narrow bunk, his eyes half-closed as he took careful breaths, feeling the familiar ache in his stomach but noticing, with some relief, that it was duller than the night before.
The nausea lingered, a quiet, uncomfortable reminder of his bodyâs rebellion, but it was manageable, a low, insistent ache that didnât overwhelm him, that allowed him a small, cautious optimism for the day ahead.
Lex sat beside him, a steaming cup of herbal tea cradled in his hands, the scent of ginger and chamomile filling the air, soothing in a way that seemed to settle Sorenâs nerves, to ease some of the residual discomfort.
Lexâs gaze was warm, soft, a quiet, unspoken concern lingering in his eyes, but he offered a faint, reassuring smile as he handed the cup to Soren, his hand lingering on Sorenâs shoulder, a gentle, grounding touch that settled over him like a blanket.
âThink youâre up for the interview?â Lex asked, his voice soft, careful, a quiet question that didnât press, that allowed Soren the space to answer honestly.
Soren took a slow sip of the tea, feeling the warmth spread through him, a small comfort that eased the tension coiling in his chest.
âI think so,â he replied, his voice steady, though he could feel the faint edge of uncertainty lingering beneath the words. âIâm⊠better than last night, at least,â he added.
Lex nodded, his hand moving to rest on Sorenâs back, a gentle, reassuring presence that kept him grounded, that reminded him he didnât have to carry this alone.
âIf youâre feeling up to it, weâll take it slow,â he murmured, his voice warm, a quiet, unspoken encouragement that settled over Soren like a blanket.
With Lexâs support, Soren found the strength to get ready, moving through the familiar motions of his morning routine, each step careful, measured, as though he were testing the limits of his own endurance.
The nausea lingered, a faint, uncomfortable ache that settled low in his stomach, but he pushed it down, held onto the hope that he could manage, that he could push through the day without letting it affect their plans.
By the time they reached the interview venue, the ache in his stomach had dulled further, a faint, manageable discomfort that left him feeling cautiously optimistic. He took a slow breath as they entered the studio, the familiar hum of pre-interview preparations settling over him, grounding him in the routines he knew so well.
Lex stayed close, his hand resting lightly on Sorenâs arm, a quiet, steady presence that kept him anchored, a reminder that he wasnât alone, even as the faint edge of discomfort lingered, a quiet, insistent ache that refused to let go entirely.
The interviewer greeted them with a warm smile, her energy bright and welcoming as she introduced herself, diving into the questions with an ease that put Soren at ease, that allowed him to settle into the familiar rhythm of answering, responding, moving through the motions with a practiced calm.
He could feel the discomfort lurking beneath the surface, a faint, nagging reminder of the night before, but he managed to push it down, to keep his focus on the conversation, on the quiet, grounding presence of Lex beside him.
As the interview wrapped up, Lexâs hand moved to Sorenâs back, a gentle, comforting touch that settled over him like a blanket, a small, unspoken reassurance that heâd made it through, that heâd managed to hold it together, if only for a little while.
Soren let out a slow, careful breath, feeling a faint, tentative relief settle over him, a quiet hope that he could get through the rest of the day, that he could push through the lingering discomfort, the quiet, insistent ache that had been gnawing at him.
But as the day wore on, the nausea began to creep back, a low, relentless ache that settled in his stomach, twisting with each step, each small movement.
By the time they reached the venue for the nightâs show, Soren could feel the discomfort intensifying, a sharp, insistent pressure that pressed against his ribs, his chest, leaving him feeling weak, unsteady.
He took careful, shallow breaths, each inhale a measured effort to keep the sickness at bay, to hold onto the fragile control heâd managed to scrape together.
Lex noticed almost immediately, his gaze softening as he took in the tension in Sorenâs posture, the way he was gripping his stomach, his jaw clenched against the discomfort.
Without a word, Lex moved closer, his hand resting lightly on Sorenâs back, his fingers tracing gentle, soothing circles, a quiet, grounding presence that seemed to ease some of the tension, the weight pressing down on him.
âHey,â Lex murmured softly, his voice a gentle, steady reassurance that cut through the haze, grounding Soren in the warmth, the familiarity of his presence. âYou sure youâre okay for this?â
Soren managed a faint nod, though he could feel the nausea building, sharper now, a quiet, insistent ache that settled low in his stomach, twisting with each breath, each careful movement.
âYeah⊠just⊠need a minute,â he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, a faint, unsteady assurance that lingered in the air, a quiet hope that he could push through, that he could hold it together, if only for a little while longer.
But even as he spoke, he could feel his control slipping, the nausea rising with a force that left him breathless, his body betraying him in ways he couldnât ignore.
He pressed his hand tightly against his stomach, his fingers digging into his side as he fought to keep the sickness from overtaking him, to hold it back, but the ache only grew sharper, more insistent, a weight that settled heavily, unyielding.
Lexâs hand drifted to Sorenâs shoulder, a small, grounding touch that kept him anchored, that kept him from slipping into the discomfort entirely.
âIf you need to sit this one outâŠâ Lexâs voice was soft, careful, a gentle suggestion that lingered in the air, a reminder that he didnât have to push through this, that he didnât have to hold it all alone.
Soren managed a faint, weak smile, though he could feel the nausea clawing its way up, sharper now, a quiet, relentless pressure that left him trembling, his hand gripping the edge of the nearby chair as he fought to steady himself, to keep the sickness from dragging him under.
âI can handle it,â he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, a faint, desperate assurance that lingered in the air, a quiet hope that he could hold it together, that he could push through the discomfort.
But the nausea surged again, sharper this time, a relentless ache that left him gasping, his body giving in to the sickness with a force that left him breathless, weak.
He barely had time to lean over the trash can Lex had set beside him before his body gave in, a harsh, involuntary heave that left him shaking, his hand gripping the edge of the can as he fought to hold himself together, to keep the sickness from overtaking him completely.
Lex was beside him in an instant, his hand moving to the back of Sorenâs neck, his fingers warm, comforting, a small, familiar presence that kept him steady, that kept him from slipping into the discomfort entirely.
âIâve got you,â Lex murmured softly, his voice a quiet, steady reassurance that settled over Soren like a blanket, a reminder that he wasnât alone, that he didnât have to carry this on his own.
The sickness dragged on, each wave sharp, unrelenting, leaving Soren weak, breathless, his body betraying him in ways he couldnât control. He could feel the cold sweat on his forehead, a faint, clammy dampness that left him shivering, his skin pale, a reminder of his own vulnerability, the quiet shame that lingered beneath the discomfort.
When the worst of it passed, he slumped back, his head hanging, his hand still pressed to his stomach as he fought to catch his breath, the nausea lingering like a dull ache, a reminder of his own bodyâs rebellion. He felt weak, hollow, each breath a careful, measured effort, and he closed his eyes, willing himself to hold it together, to keep the sickness from overtaking him completely.
Lexâs hand drifted to his shoulder, his fingers gentle, soothing, a quiet, steadying presence that kept Soren grounded, that reminded him he wasnât alone.
âOh, babe, you donât look good at all,â Lex said softly.
âI donât feel good, at all,â Soren said, sighing softly, âBut Iâll⊠Iâll be alright.â
âYeah, because the reamins everything youâve eaten in the past three days looking like some fucked up recipe for disastwr in the trash is a very clear indication youâre totally fine.â Lex said sarcastically, chuckling softly.
âIf you ever describe it that way again, next round goes on you,â Soren mumbled, leaning forward to rest his head on the dressing room vanity.
Lex stayed beside him, his hand resting on Sorenâs back, a quiet, grounding presence that kept him steady.
And in that small, quiet space, Soren let himself lean into the comfort, the warmth, a fragile, tentative acceptance that he didnât have to face this alone.
As showtime drew near, Soren could feel the discomfort creeping back, sharper and more insistent with each passing moment. The cautious optimism heâd felt that morning, the faint hope that maybe he was on the mend, had faded, replaced by a familiar ache that settled low in his stomach, a relentless, twisting nausea that left him feeling hollow, unsteady.
He took careful breaths, willing the sickness to ease, to give him enough strength to get through the night, but the nausea only grew, sharper now, a quiet, insistent reminder that his body was protesting in ways he couldnât ignore.
Lex stood beside him, his hand resting lightly on Sorenâs shoulder, his fingers tracing small, soothing circles against the fabric of his shirt. It was a quiet, grounding gesture, a familiar warmth that cut through the haze of discomfort, if only by a fraction.
Lexâs gaze lingered on him, soft, concerned, a quiet, unspoken question lingering in his eyes, but he didnât press, didnât demand an answer, just stayed close, his presence a steadying comfort that kept Soren grounded.
âYou sure youâre up for this?â Lex asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper, a gentle question that lingered in the air, a reminder that he didnât have to push through this alone, that he didnât have to carry the weight on his own.
Soren managed a faint, strained smile, his head dipping slightly as he nodded, his voice steady, though he could feel the tremor lingering beneath the words. âIâve got this,â he replied, his tone firm, a quiet determination that belied the nausea twisting in his stomach, the sickness that clung to him, sharp and unyielding. Heâd pushed through beforeâlong nights, rougher shows, moments when heâd felt weaker, sicker than this. He could manage, he had to.
As the band took their places on stage, the roar of the crowd washed over him, a deafening wave that usually settled his nerves, that reminded him of the rhythm theyâd built, the routines that held them steady. But tonight, every sound, every bright flash of the lights felt like an assault, each sensation amplified by the discomfort gnawing at him, leaving him feeling off-kilter, exposed.
Lex stayed close, his gaze flicking to Soren every now and then, a quiet, subtle check-in that kept him grounded, that reminded him he wasnât alone. Sorenâs hand drifted to his stomach, pressing lightly against the ache, a small, futile gesture that did nothing to ease the nausea but brought him some measure of focus, a distraction from the relentless churning in his gut.
He could feel the sweat breaking out along his forehead, a faint, clammy dampness that left him shivering, his skin pale, a reminder of his own bodyâs rebellion, the weakness he could never quite accept.
The first song began, the familiar chords reverberating through the stage, grounding him in the routine, the rhythm he knew so well. He focused on his guitar, each note a small, careful movement that kept his mind occupied, that allowed him to push the sickness down, to hold it at bay, if only for a little while.
Lexâs voice rose over the crowd, steady, powerful, a sound that seemed to cut through the haze, grounding Soren in the present, in the familiar warmth of their connection.
But as the minutes ticked by, the nausea grew sharper, more insistent, a low, relentless ache that twisted in his stomach, leaving him breathless, weak.
He took careful breaths, each inhale a measured effort to keep the sickness from overtaking him, to hold onto the fragile control heâd managed to scrape together. But the sickness refused to be ignored, clawing its way up with a force that left him gasping, his body betraying him in ways he couldnât fight.
Soren took advantage of a small instrumental break, slipping to the side of the stage, his movements careful, deliberate, as he braced himself against the wall, his hand pressed tightly to his stomach as he fought to keep the sickness at bay.
He barely made it to a small trash can set discreetly offstage before his body gave in, each heave dragging him under, leaving him breathless, weak, his throat raw from the acid, the strain.
The sickness was relentless, each wave sharp, unyielding, leaving him trembling, his hand gripping the edge of the trash can as he fought to steady himself, to keep the nausea from overtaking him completely.
He could feel the cool sweat on his forehead, a faint, clammy dampness that left him shivering, his skin pale, a reminder of his own vulnerability, the quiet shame that lingered beneath the discomfort.
He barely had a moment to catch his breath before the next song began, the familiar chords pulling him back, forcing him to push the sickness down, to hold onto the fragile control heâd managed to scrape together.
He wiped his mouth, his hand shaking slightly as he steadied himself, forcing himself back onstage, back into the rhythm, the routine that kept him grounded, that allowed him to push through the discomfort, if only for a little while.
Lexâs gaze met his as he stepped back into place, a quiet, unspoken concern lingering in his eyes, but Soren managed a faint, reassuring smile, a quiet assurance that he could handle it, that he could push through.
He could see the worry in Lexâs expression, the way his gaze lingered on Soren, a silent question, but he didnât press, didnât demand an answer, just continued, his voice steady, powerful, a grounding presence that kept Soren anchored.
But as the night wore on, the nausea grew worse, sharper, a low, relentless ache that refused to let go, that twisted in his stomach with each song, each note. He could feel the exhaustion settling into his bones, a heaviness that left him feeling hollow, weak, and he took careful, shallow breaths, each inhale a measured effort to keep the sickness from overtaking him, to hold onto the fragile control heâd managed to scrape together.
Another instrumental break offered a brief respite, a small window for him to slip offstage again, to find a quiet corner where he could brace himself, his hand pressed to his stomach as he fought to keep the sickness down, to hold it back.
But his body gave in, each heave dragging him under, leaving him breathless, weak, the taste of acid sharp and bitter on his tongue, a reminder of his own bodyâs betrayal, the vulnerability he could never quite accept.
He leaned heavily against the wall, his breathing shallow, uneven, each inhale a careful, measured effort as he fought to keep the nausea from rising again, the sickness a low, relentless ache that left him feeling hollow, weak.
He knew he couldnât keep this up, couldnât push through the night without consequence, but the thought of stepping down, of leaving Lex to handle it alone, left him feeling exposed, vulnerable, a quiet discomfort he couldnât quite shake.
As he made his way back onstage, he could feel Lexâs gaze on him, a quiet, gentle concern lingering in his eyes, but Soren forced a faint, reassuring smile, a small, fragile assurance that he could handle it, that he could push through.
Lexâs hand brushed against his arm, a small, grounding touch that kept him steady, a reminder that he didnât have to carry the weight alone, that he didnât have to hold it all on his own.
But as the night drew to a close, the sickness refused to ease, each wave sharper, more insistent, a reminder that his body was reaching its limit, that he couldnât push through without consequence.
By the final song, Soren could barely hold it together, his body trembling, weak, the nausea a relentless ache that left him feeling hollow, breathless, each breath a careful, measured effort.
Lex glanced over, his gaze soft, a quiet, unspoken concern lingering in his eyes, but Soren managed a faint nod, a small, fragile assurance that he could handle it, that he could push through, if only for a little longer.
And as the last notes faded, as the lights dimmed, he felt a small, tentative relief settle over him, in the form of Lexâs arms wrapped around him.
The afternoon sun poured through the bus windows, casting a warm, gentle light over everything, a contrast to the relentless exhaustion that had plagued Soren over the past day.
He sat at the small table, a steaming cup of tea cradled in his hands, the faint scent of peppermint and ginger filling the air, soothing in a way that reminded him of Lexâs own quiet attentiveness, the careful way Lex had stayed beside him through the worst of it, grounding him, comforting him.
The sickness had lingered through the early morning, each hour a quiet battle against his own body, but by now, the nausea had faded to a dull, manageable ache, a faint discomfort that was nothing compared to the sharp, relentless sickness that had gripped him the day before.
He took a slow sip of the tea, the warmth spreading through him, easing the last remnants of tension that clung to his body, a reminder of the vulnerability he could never quite shake.
Lex sat across from him, his long, dark hair falling in loose waves over his shoulders, his gaze soft, warm, a quiet, unspoken concern lingering in his expression.
Heâd been watching Soren with a gentle, attentive gaze, his gaze lifting every so often from his phone or his notebook.
âFeeling better?â Lex asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper, a gentle question that lingered in the air, a reminder that he didnât have to push himself, that he could take things slow, that he could let himself recover at his own pace.
Soren nodded, managing a faint, reassuring smile as he set the tea down, his hands resting on the table as he leaned back, letting out a slow, careful breath.
âYeah,â he replied, his voice steady, though there was a faint edge of exhaustion lingering in his tone. âFinally feels like itâs passed⊠thanks to you,â he added, a small, grateful smile flickering at the corners of his mouth, a quiet acknowledgment of the care Lex had offered so freely, so gently.
Lex waved off the thanks with a soft smile, but his gaze lingered, a subtle warmth in his eyes that conveyed more than words ever couldâa quiet understanding, a comfort that had always been there between them, a connection that needed no explanation.
He leaned forward, his hand reaching across the table to rest lightly on Sorenâs, a small, grounding touch that kept them both anchored, a reminder that they didnât have to face anything alone, that they had each other, even in the quiet, vulnerable moments.
As they sat there, the silence stretching between them, Sorenâs gaze drifted to Lexâs face, noticing the faint shadows under his eyes, the slight tension in his expression, a subtle discomfort that hadnât been there before.
It was small, barely noticeable, but Soren had known Lex long enough to recognize the subtle shifts, the quiet signs that hinted at something deeper, something Lex wasnât ready to acknowledge.
Lex cleared his throat softly, a faint, almost absent-minded sound that Soren had come to associate with Lexâs own discomfort, a small, unconscious habit that often preceded the early signs of sickness. It was subtle, a quiet tic that most people wouldnât notice, but to Soren, it was a small, telling detail, a hint that Lex might be feeling the first stirrings of whatever illness had overtaken Soren. Lex only ever cleared his throat this much when he was feeling like he was about to vomit, as if doing so would dislodge the sickness from his throat and go back down, a habit picked up to avoid throwing up, Lex always hated getting sick like that.
âYou alright?â Soren asked, his tone light, casual, though there was a faint, gentle concern lingering beneath the question, a quiet, unspoken hope that Lex might be willing to acknowledge the discomfort, to let himself lean into the support that Soren was ready to offer.
Lex glanced up, his gaze meeting Sorenâs, and for a moment, there was a flicker of something unspoken in his expression, a small, vulnerable look that settled over him, before he brushed it off with a faint smile, a small, self-assured nod. âYeah⊠just tired,â he replied, his tone calm, steady, though there was a faint edge of something else lingering beneath the words, a quiet discomfort that hadnât quite settled.
He cleared his throat again, a small, almost reflexive gesture, his gaze dropping to the tea in his hands as he took a slow sip, his movements careful, deliberate, as though he were testing the limits of his own endurance. Sorenâs gaze lingered, a quiet, gentle concern settling over him as he watched Lex, taking in the small, subtle shifts in his posture, the faint way his hand trembled as he set the cup down, the way his gaze seemed to drift, unfocused, a quiet discomfort lingering in the background.
âYouâre sure?â Soren pressed, his voice soft, a gentle, unspoken question lingering in the air, a quiet hope that Lex might let himself lean into the comfort, the support that Soren was ready to offer, a small, tentative invitation to share the weight, to let Soren take care of him for once.
Lexâs smile was faint, a small, grateful expression that flickered at the corners of his mouth, a quiet acknowledgment of Sorenâs concern, though he didnât answer, didnât give any indication of the discomfort that lingered beneath the surface. Instead, he reached across the table, his hand resting lightly on Sorenâs, a small, grounding touch that kept them both anchored, a reminder that they didnât have to face anything alone, that they had each other, even in the quiet, vulnerable moments.
As they sat there, the quiet stretching between them, Soren could feel the faint, subtle tension in Lexâs touch, the quiet discomfort that lingered in the background, a small, unspoken reminder that there was something more beneath the surface, a hint of vulnerability that Lex wasnât ready to acknowledge. But Soren didnât press, didnât demand an answer, just held Lexâs hand, a quiet, grounding presence that kept them both steady, a reminder that they didnât have to face anything alone.
And as the afternoon sunlight filled the space, casting a warm, gentle glow over them, Soren felt a small, quiet understanding settle over him, a reminder of the quiet strength, the connection they shared, a bond that needed no words, no grand gestures, just a hand on a shoulder, a quiet, steady comfort that held them both, even in the vulnerable moments, even in the quiet, unspoken understanding that lingered between them.
As the silence stretched on, Soren couldnât shake the faint, lingering feeling that hinted at the possibility of Lex coming down with the very same illness heâd struggled through.
It was subtle, a small, almost imperceptible shift in the air, a quiet tension that lingered in the background, but Soren knew, in that small, fragile moment, that he would be there, that he would offer the same care, the same quiet support that Lex had given him.
Soren didnât miss the way Lex set down his mug of tea like it had personally wronged him, or that the mere thought of drinking more would make his body stage an all out rejection. But, he didnât say anything about it, Soren didnât ask.
Soren moved to sit next to Lex, closing the space between them, wrapping an arm around Lexâs shoulders as if that would protect Lex from whatever knocked Soren so badly.
âCome here,â Soren said, rubbing Lexâs shoulder, âIâve got you.â
