Cameron falls asleep on the sofa, his too-long legs stretched over the side, his arm draped over his face.
If he could move, he’d go to bed, somewhere he could actually fit. But, he couldn’t. Every movement sent waves of nausea through him, causing him to grit his teeth and breathe.
Cameron doesn’t get ill. He prides himself on that. Everything he owns is sorted, clean, in it’s place. He doesn’t get ill. And yet, he’s stuck on the sofa.
The leather sticks to his skin; his oversized sweats and t-shirt bunches up in the wrong places, digging into his ribs and leaving his side exposed. Again, if he could move, he’d sort it. Instead, he just sighs and closes his eyes.
Everything is spinning. Voices don’t match the speakers. Things are so muffled but too loud. He groans, the sound vibrating through his head.
There’s a dip by his knees as Owen sits on the bottom of the sofa.
“You think you can make it to your room?” He rests his hand on Cameron’s shin. “You’ll be more comfortable.”
“I’m fine.” His words are sharp, spoken through clenched teeth. He doesn’t look at Owen.
“Okay.” Owen pushes himself up, draping a thin duvet over his student. “Shout if you need anything.”
Cameron lets out the breath he doesn’t realise he’s been holding as Owen walks out. If he can convince his body that he isn’t sick, then he won’t be ill. Denial seems to be the way to go, and he seems to master it as he drifts off to sleep.
Cameron wakes with a start and he knows he’s going to throw up. He can feel the sharp pain in his stomach, the ’oh shit’ feeling he hated so much as a kid. There’s not enough time to make it to the toilet, or even to a bin. The thought doesn’t help the feeling rising in this stomach as he rolls over; he can at least try to not throw up in the common room.
He almost cries - does cry - in relief when he sees the empty bin and towel by the sofa. Owen. Once he’d finished throwing up, he’d thank him.
The first retch takes him by surprise and sends him to his knees, hunching over the bin. He whines. It’s pathetic, and he knows it. He’s an adult now. He shouldn’t feel this way.
The acid burns his throat, causing him to cough. He can’t breathe he can’t breathe he can’t-
“Breathe, Cameron. You’re just ill. It’s okay.” Owen must have heard him, and Cameron can’t stop the embarrassment. Owen’s hand is on his upper back, the heat a welcome relief to his shaking muscles.
He’s crying by the time he throws up for the third time in a minute. Huge sobs between gasps for air. At some point Callum comes out of their room, concerned, but is quickly waved away.
Owen keeps trying to make him drink, but he doesn’t seem to understand that the ‘small sips’ aren’t helping, they’re just making him feel sick and be sick and he won’t stop-
He buries his head in the bin again as he vomits, his back arching and fingers gripping the edge as if his life depended on it. To him, it did.
In between having his head in the bin and pushing Owen’s bottle away, he reverts to keening. Small, pathetic whimpers and noises, begging to be put out of his misery already.
Strong hands lift him up, sit him in a wheelchair. They’re talking to him but he can’t decipher the words. He doesn’t remember lying on the floor, but he must have been. He also doesn’t recognise the hoodie he’s now wearing.
Cameron retches again, and there’s a dish shoved under his face. He’s shaking too much to hold it himself, and someone’s holding him back into the seat. Holding his shoulders up. Rubbing his arms gently. He whimpers again, shivering as the cold air hits him; his clothes are damp with sweat, the fabric too thin for winter. If he leans his head to the side, he doesn’t have to hold it. He can just rest it and sleep.
Someone’s shaking his shoulders, and he jerks his head up, completely disoriented. Owen’s kneeling in front of him. Talking. Waiting for an answer. Cameron blinks back.
“We’re going to get you sorted, okay? They’re just going to give you some drugs.” He smiles, trying to hide his concern for the younger man in front of him. It’s only after Owen finished speaking that he realises he’s no longer on a chair.
He pushes himself up onto his elbow, one arm reaching for - he doesn’t quite know.
“Whoa, easy, champ. Let’s lie back down.” Owen’s hands are on his shoulders, pushing him back into the bed. Cameron nods as he lies back down, eyes still clueless and dazed.
There’s a tug in the back of his hand; an IV, and a nurse attaching something into it. He stares at it before giving Owen the same look.
“It’s okay, it’s just fluids and pain meds.” Owen gently taps his other hand. “It won’t hurt you.”
Cameron rests his head back down, his eyes closing against his will. In protest, he tries to push himself up again, earning a raised eyebrow from Owen. A lazy smile spreads across Cameron’s face as he relaxes again. He reaches for Owen’s hand and squeezes.
There’s half a muttered expression of gratitude as the drugs kick in and he slips back asleep.