Trials and Tribulations (1/?)
So apparently our lovely tungle dot com decided to completely erase a couple of my fics, this being one of them. So here I am to repost, bc this is actually important to a major plot arc for the Blues Group.
“YES! Ah! That’s it!” Avi exclaimed, startling Morgan out of his momentary daze. Avi had called Morgan over to their place earlier in the day for help with a new song idea, but they had gotten rather stuck on a chord in the bridge and everything Morgan had been suggesting for the past ten minutes was shot down. Eventually Morgan just let Avi do their thing, zoning out for a bit as they plunked around on the piano, trying to find the exact combination of notes they were hearing in their head. Inwardly he was actually a little grateful for the break. He had been feeling a kind of gnawing in his stomach for the last hour or so that had recently blossomed into mild nausea, and the reprieve from constant conversation and singing was nice, although short lived. He absently ran a hand over his stomach as he turned back to Avi.
“Let’s hear it then,” he prompted, gesturing to the keyboard. The lanky pianist smiled, whipping around and starting from the beginning of the bridge, singing Morgan’s vocals quietly along with the accompaniment. When they got to the part they had gotten stuck on before, they looked pointedly over at Morgan and raised an eyebrow as they played the dissonant chord they had been agonizing over before finishing out the bridge with a flourish. It was beautiful, tones playing off each other and leading the ear in unexpected ways. Half steps are a thing of beauty, Morgan thought.
“Yes! That fits so much better than what I was saying,” he laughed, inwardly wincing a bit as the motion jostled his unsettled stomach.
“I know, that’s why I kept saying no to what you were saying, sugar” Avi replied, thick southern drawl curling their words. “I’d give my left leg for your perfect pitch.” They laughed as Morgan raised an eyebrow at them.
“And what exactly would I do with your left leg after said trade?” He smiled amusedly as Avi shrugged and went back to playing. “Seems like I’d be getting the short end of the stick.”
“Search me, darlin’. Maybe hit people with it? Carry it around to give people a scare?” they quipped back, not looking up from the keys. “It’s certainly long enough and white enough to pass for a fancy marble pillar, so maybe stick it on the fancy porch of a very small mansion?” they added, smiling down at the piano as their fingers flew over the keyboard.
Morgan laughed, but said nothing. Instead, he stifled a breathy burp behind his fist. He wasn’t quite sure what was making him queasy, but he was sure at this point that hunger wasn’t the culprit. The very thought of eating made his stomach roll uneasily inside him. Avi’s unnaturally warm room certainly wasn’t helping his case, nor were the strong smelling leftovers from their lunch a few hours earlier. Spicy Indian curry. Another burp rolled up his throat and his cheeks puffed out as he tried to keep it silent. Avi was too absorbed in what they were playing to notice anything else, for which Morgan was grateful. He pressed the back of his fingers against his cheek, feeling his flushed face. He was definitely too warm, but again, that could just be the heat of the room. Perhaps he was reading into things too much.
He sat in silence listening to Avi play for a few more minutes when his stomach let out an audible gurgle, which in turn elicited another belch. Maybe curry had been a bad idea. I need to get out of this room, Morgan thought. He stood slowly, being careful not to jar his quickly worsening stomach.
“Back in a moment,” he said as he stepped through the door. Avi nodded and waved a hand in dismissal when they could spare it, not really processing what had been said.
Morgan closed the door behind him, but unfortunately both the heat and the smell had already permeated the entire apartment. Pressing a hand against his gurgling stomach, he momentarily sagged against the wall before stepping into the bathroom and leaning over the sink. He looked up at himself in the mirror. He didn’t look particularly sick. No sunken eyes or terrible flush - if anything, he looked a bit paler than normal despite how hot his face felt. He stifled another burp behind his fist, tasting an offensive mixture of stomach acid, curry, and the coffee he drank earlier. He pulled his long dreads back into a ponytail and turned on the faucet, splashing some of the cool water on his face. It felt good on his too-warm skin, and he leaned down and took a sip from the stream. The cool liquid felt amazing. Maybe it’s just dehydration after all, he thought. After all, he hadn’t had a proper drink of water in longer than he could remember. And it didn’t seem to hurt him, so he took a slightly longer drink from it, and when that felt alright, another. He didn’t stop until he felt like he had rehydrated sufficiently, and was a little cooler to boot.
As he stood up to return to the room, the water in his now full stomach sloshed uncomfortably. He had only taken a few steps back down the hallway when it started churning and roiling with a newfound vengeance. The nausea came back so quickly and with such intensity that he had to support himself with the wall as he staggered back to the restroom as quickly as he could given that the floor was tilting feet. He clamped a hand over his mouth; salty saliva began to pool in his mouth and he gagged unproductively against his palm.
As soon as the toilet was in sight his stomach lurched, sending up a small torrent of water that spurted from between his fingers. He darted over to the sink and doubled over, heaving again. Mostly liquid sick splattered into the basin, a few droplets splashing back up onto his face and shirt. He took a moment to catch his breath, and bit back a gag as he darted over to the toilet and lifted the lid. No sooner had he collapsed to his knees than he pitched forward as another gush thundered into bowl, coming out his nose with the force of it. He panted toward the water, and screwed his eyes shut as his stomach rolled violently, more sick splattering into the murky water.
He let his mouth hang open expectantly as tendrils of drool and sick clung to his lips, but nothing else came. He knew there was more in there; his stomach was still churning and burbling like a boiling pot, but it seemed to be finished for the moment. He spit into the soiled water and grabbed a handful of toilet paper to wipe his watering eyes and the rest of his face before pitching it into the bowl. He grabbed another wad and blew his nose, almost gagging again as something dislodged that definitely wasn’t supposed to be there. He stayed kneeling for another minute, just in case, but when nothing happened he flushed the toilet stood cautiously. He made his way slowly back to Avi’s room, with small cautious steps, keeping one hand on his aching belly and the other on the wall since the room still felt as though it was pitching about like a boat on the water.
He opened the door and the smell of curry hit him like a freight train. His stomach gurgled ominously, and for a moment he was sure he was going to be sick again right there, but the danger passed after a few seconds and he stepped gingerly into the room.
Avi turned to face him when they heard the door open and gasped. All color had gone from under Morgan’s dark skin except for a few reddish blotches on the apples of his cheeks, his eyes were red and puffy, and the way he hunched over and cradled his belly spoke volumes as to how he must be feeling.
“I threw up,” he croaked out, anticipating the question when Avi’s mouth opened to speak. His normally rich voice was raspy and shallow.
Avi sprang off the bench and crossed the room in two strides. “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” they asked, despite already knowing the answer. Morgan was a very private person, and did everything in his power to keep from letting people know when something was wrong. Something about “showing weakness”, they remembered him say. They placed a cool hand on his forehead and tsked quietly at the warmth they felt.
“You’ve got a fever darlin’.”
They moved to guide Morgan to the bed, but even before they made contact Morgan’s eyes widened with sudden panic. His hand flew to his mouth as gagged, but it did nothing to stop the stream of sick from splattering down his chest and onto the floor, coating his shirt and shoes. The spray caught Avi’s skirt and shoes as well. He tried to apologize but got cut off but another gag. Avi frantically shoved their trash bin under Morgan’s chin just in time to catch the second wave, and held it there as he burped up another mouthful of sick. It fell into the bin with a crinkle of the plastic liner, followed by another larger wave. They turned their head away, closing their eyes as he spewed another gush into the bin, the sight and smell turning their stomach as well.
The bout ended just as quickly as it started, and as soon as he felt safe to speak, apologies started tumbling out of Morgan’s mouth as fast as he could say them.
“Oh my god I’m so so sorry I didn’t mean to oh my god I’m sorry there’s such a mess I’m so so sorry I don’t know what happened-”
Avi cut him off, shushing him gently. “It’s okay, Morgan. It’s not your fault. You’re alright.” They set the basin on the ground and wiped his mouth with a tissue. “Let’s get you out of these soiled clothes and clean you up, okay?” When he nodded, they grabbed his clean hand started steering him in the direction of the bathroom.
Morgan’s head was reeling. Stars danced about the corners of his vision as his head throbbed in time with his racing pulse. He leaned heavily on Avi for support when his knees threatened to buckle. His legs were trembling so hard he was sure the muscles would just give out and send him sprawling to the ground. His limbs all felt like jelly and his abs cramped and ached, as though every bit of energy in his body had been sapped up by the fit.
The trip to the restroom was a short one, but felt like it took far longer than the 30 seconds they really spent struggling to stay upright. As soon as they got there Avi all but dropped Morgan onto the toilet. He groaned at the jarring movement and sagged forward, curling both arms around his stomach, his head lolling against his chest. He always felt exhausted after throwing up, but this was something else. He was so warm. His eyelids were so heavy.
Avi turned on the faucet in their large bath, letting the water run until it was warm before plugging the drain. They then tapped Morgan’s cheek to rouse him, grimacing at the heat they felt there. Was it possible for a fever to shoot up so quickly? They bit their lip in worry as Morgan’s glassy eyes worked to focus on them, eventually settling on the bright floral tattoo on their chest, seemingly unable to look up any further. Or at least unwilling.
“It’s gonna be okay,” Avi said, more for their own benefit than Morgan’s. “Stay with me, sweetheart,” they whispered, brushing a stray dread behind Morgan’s ear and tipping his face up toward their own.
“‘M here,” Morgan mumbled almost incoherently, looking pointedly away from Avi in humiliation. “‘M just… so tired. Why’m I so tired?” His eyes turned toward them, searching their face for an answer, but saw only worry.
“I don’t know, sugar,” Avi answered, starting to tug at the bottom of Morgan’s shirt. “Arms up, okay? We’ve gotta get you cleaned up.”
“Mmmnh,” Morgan groaned, blushing crimson as Avi helped to strip him of his sick drenched shirt. They threw it unceremoniously into the sink before asking Morgan to stand and take his jeans off while they supported him. He obliged, albeit slowly and reluctantly, mind working through a fog as his fingers fumbled with the buttons and zip.
Once he was wearing nothing but his boxers, Avi helped him into the tub and turned off the water. It was a really nice tub, deep enough that he was mostly submerged, other than his shoulders and head, and long enough to stretch out his legs. Any other time he would have appreciated it, but right now the warmth of the water was starting to get to his head and make his stomach churn all over again.
Avi crossed to the sink and turned on the tap, soaking the soiled clothes-- those were a later problem-- while Morgan dispensed some soap onto a washcloth that was draped over the side of the tub. He shook his head as the sickeningly sweet black cherry scent turned his stomach, but there was some resistance to the motion.
“Shit,” he mumbled.
Avi whipped around, assuming that something bad was about to happen. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“M’ hair got wet…” he said, struggling to get the saturated locs out from behind his back.
Avi breathed a sigh of relief. This they could help with. They sat down on the edge of the tub and gently swatted Morgan’s trembling hands away before helping him sit forward enough to pull his long hair out of the water. They wrapped the dripping ends in a towel and wrung them out as best they could before using a big sparkly scrunchy to pull all of his hair up into a bun on top of his head.
“Cute,” they said with a wry laugh as Morgan stared at them incredulously.
“This a good look for me?” he asked, smiling halfheartedly when Avi replied “Definitely,” with a wink.
He resumed running the washcloth over his chest and arms, trying to get the dirty feeling off of them despite the fact that the sick had already been rinsed away. Avi excused themself to go change into some fresh clothes, and Morgan rested the side of his head against the cool wall as soon as they were gone. He sat completely still for a few minutes as his stomach churned, doing flips inside him. The nausea had come back again, and he burped openly against the tile, tasting acid at the back of his throat. He closed his eyes and wrapped his arms protectively around his middle, curling in on himself out of sight under the water and bubbles. His shoulders jerked with another sudden low belch, and he suddenly felt that familiar tug in the back of his throat as spit pooled in his mouth. He was going to be sick again.
He struggled to get out of the tub but his legs wouldn’t cooperate and he slid back into the water with a splash. A trembling hand hovered over his mouth as his eyes scanned the room for a basin. The toilet was too far away, and the only trash can in the room was out of reach as well.
He gagged against his hand before calling out “Avi!” who appeared in the doorframe seconds later, wearing nothing but a pair of sleep shorts. “Tra- HEULP!- trashcan”, he said, head hanging pathetically over the edge of the tub. Avi scrambled to grab the bin and shoved it under Morgan’s chin just as a mess of beige slime spilled out from between his lips.
He took the basin with shaking hands and pulled it into the tub with him so he could sit up straight and wasn’t twisted around at the middle. He pitched forward as he was sick again, head ducking so far into the bin that his face (and everything coming out of it) was obscured by its sides. He heard the water sloshing against it as he retched up another wave and chunks of his lunch fell into the unlined bin with a shallow patter.
Avi placed a comforting hand on Morgan’s back as he got sick for what felt like the umpteenth time that day. They rubbed up and down his spine gently, slender fingers occasionally dipping into the water. They expected his bout to end quickly like the last one did, but that didn’t happen. Morgan choked and spluttered and gagged into the basin as wave after wave of sick was forced up with painful heaves. The gushes got smaller and smaller until there was absolutely nothing left in his stomach, and even then powerful dry heaves wracked his frame, occasionally bringing up a trickle of yellow bile.
Nearly a full eight minutes later, Morgan collapsed against the back of the tub as Avi took the bin from him before it could tip into the water. Tears rolled down his cheeks and Avi swiped them away with their thumb before cleaning up Morgan’s face with the washcloth. Morgan moaned as his muscles seemed to give out and he slipped further into the water. Avi caught him before his face was submerged and held him upright, his face against their chest. He started to sob; whether it was from pain, from exhaustion, from embarrassment, Avi didn’t know. They leaned over the edge of the tub, pulling him in closer and holding him, allowing him to cry freely against their chest, hot tears running down their bare skin as they dropped from his eyes.
Panic surged through their body like electricity, making their fingers tingle and chest tight. Morgan didn’t cry. He never cried. When he did, you knew something was really really wrong. They they hummed gently against the top of his head, stroking his arm with one hand while the other supported his back.
“You’re okay. I’ve got you,” they whispered. They glanced around the room to find a dry towel to dry his tears with.
That’s when they saw it.
At the bottom of the shallow trash can.
Blood, mixed in with the sick. A significant amount.
They did their best to keep calm as adrenaline and panic coursed through their veins anew, and they quietly reached for their phone and pressed the emergency call button.
“911, what is your emergency?”