There's something so vulnerable that I love about Whumpers who do the necessities to take care of Whumpee.
Holding a fork to Whumpee's lips so they can eat without taking off their restraints. Hands that usually inflict pain and misery, gently massaging shampoo into Whumpee's hair, and shielding their eyes from the shower hose.
takes place a week or so after this incident in “im not yours”
CW: more Blake than Martin, fairly graphic emeto more than once, nausea, headache, fever, sickness, weakness, spoon feeding, pet whump mentions, comfort, two generations of carewhumpers here, past abuse mentions including spraying with cold water from a hose
Carlo didn’t want to be sick. He never wanted to be sick, of course. But he really didn’t want to be sick here.
He’d been sick like this once, but it was years ago and he came down with it in the warehouse. It had been freezing for a week and they’d sprayed him with a hose for fun every time he dozed off on a pallet. He remembered his hair freezing. He could crack strands of it like a stick with his fingers. It was a full day before he stopped falling asleep and started losing consciousness. Only then had Keith taken him inside to Erik, and lied by omission about the hose and cold water factoring into the state he was in.
He didn’t know what this was. A virus, something he ate. He just knew he was fine Wednesday evening and then woke up at midnight in a cold sweat. He vomited until he was shaking all over, doing nothing but gagging on stomach bile.
Martin found him that way in the morning. He’d cleaned up his face, given him some all-natural mouthwash to rinse out his sour tasting mouth. He smelled of sharp sweat and vomit, but Martin did not have time or patience to try and get him in a bath and he was grateful. The thought of hot water made him queasy and he was too exhausted to hold himself up to dry heave anymore.
Martin picked him up under the armpits and got him to a sitting position on the shelf of the tub.
“M’ sorry,” Carlo panted, dizzy. “I don’t know what….”
“You’re alright,” Martin assured him, pulling him up to standing. He was strong, like a man twenty years his junior. Carlo remembered the ease with which he’d wheeled him around, slammed him into the wall downstairs. His head had been tender for two days. He slumped against him and focused on keeping his legs strong, though they shook with the effort.
“You didn’t take anything, did you?”
“No,” Carlo shook his head miserably. “Nothing.”
“Let’s get you into bed, sweetheart. I have to be at the office today, I have a partner coming in from Houston. But I want you to answer when I call. Do you understand?”
Carlo nodded. They’d made their way to his room, peppered with his things now instead of hotel-bare. Martin set him gently on his back, picking up his ankles and swinging them up into bed. Carlo took a deep breath, his eyes already closing with exhaustion.
Martin lingered by the bed for a moment, and Carlo forced his eyes open to see his expression. It was gentle, the blue eyes which could be so icy were warm with concern. He sighed shakily and Martin touched his forehead. It seemed like a bad dream now that this same man had ever slammed him against the wall and grabbed him by the throat.
“I think you have a fever. I’m going to get you some medicine.”
Carlo dozed until he came back, two pink pills in hand. He brought a ginger ale and had even stuck a glass straw in the can. The glass straws made Carlo nervous. Like he was going to somehow break it and then drink the slivers, but Martin was not in the habit of keeping things like cheap plastic in his home.
Martin gave him a sip to swallow the pills and he drank gratefully, like a hummingbird right out of his hand.
“I’m going to call in a couple hours,” he said again. “Is your ringer on?”
It was all Carlo could do to pick up his phone and check. “No.” He switched it off silent with some effort and set it down on the nightstand. “Now it is.”
“Good boy. There’s a bowl by the bed if you feel sick again and don’t want to get up. I don’t want you lying on the tile all day in there. If you get worse, I’ll take you to my doctor.”
He didn’t like to think about feeling worse than this. Martin closed his door and he was pulled into sleep.
-
Blake Olson hung up his coat and toed off his shoes in his fathers new house, balancing a clear container of soup in the crook of one arm.
He’d been a little surprised at a text from his dad in the middle of the day, but it made sense once he read it. His beloved little borrowed housepet had seemingly come down with something, and he wanted Blake to swing by and check on him. And bring him something to eat. He at least did not insult him by venmoing 30 bucks to him first. That was something.
While Blake was not in the mood to do his father any favors, he didn’t mind this one. It was for the pet, anyway. Not his dad.
He knocked softly on the bedroom door, cracked it when there was no answer. Carlo was sleeping, mouth parted slightly, dark circles under his eyes. His lips looked dry.
Blake sat gently on the side of the bed. At least this wasn’t his childhood home downtown. It would be weird as hell if his dad took in Erik Holstrom’s pet and had him sleep in Blake’s childhood room.
This house was newer, sleeker, more efficient. It had white walls where his childhood room had been a buttery yellow. It was uptown, and there were trees outside the tall windows.
“Hey, kid,” he said softly.
Carlo’s eyelashes fluttered and he cracked his eyes open. For a moment nothing registered, and then he scrambled back as best he could lying down.
He relaxed a little, heart pounding under a thin grey tee shirt. He coughed weakly.
“My dad said you weren’t feeling good and he wanted me to swing by and check on you.” Blake placed the container on the nightstand, along with a plastic spoon wrapped in cellophane. “I brought you some soup if you can stomach it. It’s really good. The soup place.”
“Thank-,” the boy started, but his tongue seemed to be stuck to the roof of his mouth. He coughed again.
“Here,” Blake held a lukewarm can of gingerale to his lips and he sipped.
“Is that a glass fucking straw?”
Carlo laughed weakly, closing his eyes and lying his head back against the pillows.
Blake felt like he’d won something, getting a reaction out of this stoic little robot.
“Don’t take this wrong, but you look like shit.”
Carlo nodded and swallowed like it hurt.
“Is my dad taking good care of you?”
He nodded again without opening his eyes.
“Huh. It’s hard for me to picture, I guess. He can be such a prick. My mom always took care of me when I was sick. Have you met her?”
“No.”
“Figures. Well she would take really good care of you.”
“Me?” Carlo opened his eyes. “Her ex-husband's… pet?”
Blake huffed. “Yeah, even so. She’d look past that if you were all sick and pathetic looking like this. Again, no offense. Everyone looks pathetic when they’re sick, I’m not saying you are pathetic. I know you’re not. I can see that in the way you carry yourself. You know your place, but you also know your worth. I didn’t mean it when I called you a whore the other day. That was a jab at my dad, not you.”
Carlo held his gaze for a moment, surprised. He glanced away.
“Here,” Blake pulled open the lid of the soup. “Are you up to a bite? I was specifically asked to try to feed you.”
He sat up some, and seemed interested if totally weak and exhausted. He fumbled with the wrapping on the spoon a few times before Blake just took it from him and did it himself.
“Here, I got you.”
He didn’t think anything of helping until Carlo actually opened his mouth to accept a spoonful of broth. The strange intimacy of the act hit him sideways and he had to double down rather than make it weird.
“It’s good, right?”
Carlo swallowed painstakingly.
“So…” he was grasping at straws for something to say that didn’t bring attention to the fact he was spoon feeding his fathers pet in bed. “I heard there’s gonna be an appeal to that sentencing.”
Carlo shrugged. “So they say.”
“You must be pretty sick of all of it, huh? You want him in prison forever, or what?”
“No,” Carlo breathed, brows knitting in offense.
“You never know. I didn’t know if he was nice to you or not. You miss him then?”
He had overstepped. What else was new. The boy flinched and turned away from a spoonful of broth. His throat worked over some unwanted emotion and his eyes looked bright, like there might be the prick of tears behind them.
“You don’t gotta answer me,” he said by way of apology. He thought of how Todd acted with his pet, quick with a backhand and a harsh word. He took his own issues out on the poor thing. Even in moments where he hated his father, he was not so petty or immature as to take it out on an innocent. And that’s what Carlo was. Caught in the crossfire.
“I’m not spying for my dad, either, if you’re worried about that. I don’t know if you noticed - but we have our issues, me and the old man. So, anything between us is…” he gestured in a circle around them, like stirring a pot with his finger. “Just between you and me.”
“You’ve both been very…. generous,” he said softly, all pet-manners suddenly.
“Doesn’t mean you don’t wanna go home. I get that.”
Carlo turned his head towards the pillow, tearing up now against his will with nowhere to hide it.
Blake put the soup down. Getting laughter out of him had been pleasing, but tears were something else. It didn’t feel good, but it felt like something nonetheless. Sensitive little thing. Who knew what that Holstrom guy had done to him before he ever landed here with them.
“I’m sorry, Carlo. I’m making it worse.”
Carlo laughed wetly. He was getting very pale, Blake noticed. “No. I just… I don’t feel very good…is there a… a bowl by the…”
“Yep. Here. Here.” He pulled up the bowl his father left beside the bed. It reminded him of being six years old and sick, lying in the couch watching cartoons and holding a similar bowl in his arms.
Carlo retched into it, the broth he’d just been fed coming right back up. It sounded miserable. Blake let him finish and made sure he was done before setting the bowl back down.
Carlo was apologizing, lips wet and eyes hazy. Blake felt a twinge of sympathy that bordered affection.
“Shhhh. It’s okay. Your belly is not ready for food yet, I think is what that’s telling us. Here.”
He gave him a sip of ginger ale. “Just try to keep sipping so you don’t get too dehydrated.”
“Sorry,” he said again, wincing around a sip of fizzy soda.
“Stop it, it doesn’t bother me any. I was throwing up last Sunday because I drank too much tequila the night before. I looked way worse than you and it was my own damn fault. You’re good. I promise. I’m gonna leave you alone so you can sleep, ok? I’m gonna come check on you in about an hour.”
“You don’t have to spend your whole day here.”
“I got some stuff to do, it’s fine. I just need… hey, is my old laptop still here?”
“Oh… yeah. It’s on the dresser. I… I didn’t know it was yours and I…”
“It’s fine. Relax. You’re good.”
He stood from the bed, gathering the bowl from beside the bed and scooping his old laptop under his other arm. When he was a kid, the bowl always disappeared and reappeared minutes later smelling faintly of disinfectant. He thought of his mom cleaning it up, making him toasted cheese sandwiches with the crust cut off. He’d never emptied someone else’s fucking puke bucket, but he supposed he didn’t mind. The poor kid looked rough. He paused in the doorway.
