#just clammy and sweaty no pain no sore throat no nausea no nothing

[plushslug]

I have a 101 fever yet no other illness symptoms. Thanks body! I have no clue what you're on about.

[eldrai]

Detox

Whumptober 2021 - Day 24 - Prompt: Flashback

Characters: Reid

Warnings: drug addiction, drug withdrawal, vomiting

Words: 814

Summary: Dilaudid withdrawal peaks in intensity between twenty-four and forty-eight hours. He's made the first twelve. Just twelve more and it's going to be easier.

masterlist / ao3

His body burns from the inside out, a prickling itch cracking out of his bones, as Spencer shivers on his couch. It’s too small to fit him unless he tucks his knees up, shoulder pressed against the arm and the soles of his feet flat to the other.

It hurts less to stay still than to get up and walk. He’d caught pneumonia in fourth grade and the muscle pains had been nothing compared to the aches sweeping over him in waves.

He tugs the blanket closer around him. The temporary relief from the cold is worth the fire as the blanket brushes his skin. Even the smallest joints in his fingers protest, wracked with invisible tremors. Spencer shifts, pushes sweaty hair off his forehead with a whine.

The TV remote clatters to the ground. He doesn’t reach for it: he isn’t really watching the television and the programmes mean about as much to him as the crappy infomercials jammed between. They hurt his eyes. Attention slips past like sand through his fingers.

Spencer shrugs the blanket off, hit by a hot flash. His clothes stick to him and despite the reek of sweat, he can’t find it in himself to get up and change. He isn’t sure he wants to. Getting up means he can go out, and going out means he’ll call his dealer and put an end to the neverending withdrawal, just a single hit, one last one—

Dilaudid withdrawal peaks in intensity between twenty-four and forty-eight hours. He’s made the first twelve. Just twelve more and it’s going to be easier.

His stomach cramps. The nausea has slowed down like the rest of him. Spencer bears his weight on sore bones as he hangs his head and retches into the basin he’d left. In the earlier hours he’d dragged himself to the bathroom to puke but his head hurts at the thought.

There’s nothing left to throw up. Hasn’t been since the morning.

Spencer rolls over and lets the TV sound wash out behind him. The couch is surprisingly cool and he lets the cold soak into his feverish forehead. His jaw aches with a yawn.

Sleep comes in brief naps borne of sheer exhaustion—Spencer hasn’t been comfortable enough to fall asleep intentionally since yesterday. He’d timed it so the withdrawal symptoms would kick in overnight but sleeping through the first part had been a hope rather than a real plan.

Deep in his gut he knows sleep isn’t going to happen.

A door slams. He jumps, heart in his throat, and Tobias Hankel is a brief figure in his peripheral vision. Spencer lowers his head back down and berates himself for the irrational—and it is—irrational thoughts. For following them.

His wrists itch. The skin is pale and clammy. None of the angry red scratches.

Hankel hadn’t let him go so long between doses. He’d only ever got to the intense craving stage, where he wouldn’t beg for more but wouldn’t put up much of a protest at the needle.

Spencer rolls over, groans at the pain. Trying not to think of dilaudid is a fruitless endeavour: he instead thinks of withdrawal, the natural starting point when nothing else can capture his attention, and back to the dilaudid.

So little. So little of it.

That’s all he needs. Enough to get him through the day.

He retches. Bile drips weakly into the tub.

And he knows how it works, knows dilaudid down to its molecules, knows how much he can give without overdosing, that spot where he can still function, the crucial amount. Spencer won’t share needles. Won’t get an infection. He isn’t one of those unlucky statistics because he knows how to get around it.

The rope burns. His eyes fly open. Just the blanket.

Just the blanket, in his apartment, in D.C. Just him.

Spencer kicks the blanket off, bundles it down the end of the couch. His teeth chatter. His hand is prickling with pins and needles but his face radiates heat. Breathing hurts. Existing hurts.

His gaze clouds over. Elongated shadows drape across the floor as the TV flickers. Spencer’s shoulder strains as he reaches for the glass. Water sloshes over the rim as it trembles in his grip.

The water comes back up before he puts the glass down; it slips out of his hands and thuds to the hardwood. His kitchen is across the room and a mile away. He should be hungry. That had been another problem the dilaudid solved—the hunger pains didn’t hurt when he was high and withdrawal saps his appetite.

Eleven hours to reach the peak.

Spencer knuckles his eyes, presses his palms against his forehead. Eleven hours then what, another twenty?

The floor creaks, and despite himself, he struggles upright to check. Nothing.

Maybe if he kicks the drugs, Hankel will go with them.

[ameliashepherdwannabe]

@omeliaendgame

Sorry this took me so long! I hope you like it. Also sorry if I get any medical things wrong. Mostly hurt/comfort. Owelia sickfic. (Amelia sick) btw sorry if i have any grammer or spelling mistakes i finished this up at around 1 am and didn’t proof read.

Drift (takes place in s13)

3rd Person

Amelia was sound asleep in an on-call room after a 18 hour shift, waiting for Owen to finish up. Normally a shift that long wouldn’t drain her as much but she had a huge headache and a strong urge to stick her hand down in her throat and just scratch it.

“Amelia,” Owen came in and roused Amelia awake, she lightly stirred and turned away from him. He laughed at that and kissed her forehead, which he thought was a bit warm, but thought nothing of it. Amelia opened her bright blue eyes and looked up at Owen and smiled.

“Hey,” she said groggily,

“You ready to go home?” Owen pulled her up, no matter how much it killed Amelia. She’s not one to admit she feels off.

“Mmm-hmm,” she clears her throat, they walk out of the on-call room and out of the hospital. It was drizzling.

“Rainy,” Amelia said hoarsely,

“You sound terrible,” Owen said,

“Nah, I just lost my voice yelling at those interns,” Owen put his arm around her, noticing how warm her neck was. This worried him, so he put his hand up to Amelia’s forehead but she swerved out of the way.

“Owen,” she whispers, not purposely, “I’m fine,”

“Amelia you’re warm,”

“I was inside all day, it’s fall, the heaters were on,”

“Amelia I was just concerned,” Amelia scoffed and put jumped into the car. She cleared her throat,

“Let’s go okay,”

“Fine,” Owen said, her recent outburst just made him more worried.

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It was around 2am when a strike of lightning jolted Owen awake. He realized he was freezing, a window open and the sheets missing. He got up and pulled the sheets off ground and retucked a shivering amelia back under the sheets. He closed his eyes and felt the presence of it disappear again. Amelia had shifted positions and he put his hand on her back to wake her up. Owen immediately noticed how hot and sweaty she was.

“Amelia,” she didn’t respond, “Amelia!” he said louder. She moaned. Amelia was definitely sick. Owen went around to the other side of the bed to see her face. It was pale and sweaty. He felt her forehead and the back of her neck, she had a high fever. Owen sighed, he got up and went to the bathroom to get a thermometer. Amelia opened her eyes and saw the bathroom light on, she swallowed. It hurt her throat. And her head was pounding. Owen came back and told her what he was going to do. She didn’t refuse anything, she felt too terrible. Owen started to worry, she never admitted she was wrong in any way. He stuck the thermometer in her mouth. Amelia whimpered.

“Amelia, what hurts? Is it your throat?” Owen asked, now really concerned. She nodded. He sighed. The thermometer beeped.

104. Shit.

“104.2,” Amelia sighed, “I’ll get you some water and a wet towel okay?” He pushed away some wet hair and felt her burning face. She buried herself under their blanket and drifted off to sleep. When Owen came back he put the cold, wet towel on Amelia’s forehead and it startled her awake.

“Owwww,” Amelia complained and put her hand to her head,

“How bad is your headache, from 1-10?” Owen pressed down on the towel,

“8,” she whispered back. Owen got up and opened the windows all the way.

“Nooo, Owen its cold,” Amelia voiced very hoarsely,

“We need to bring down your fever, it’s way too high,”

“Won’t help if I die of hypothermia,” Amelia was shaking, that’s how cold she felt. Owen sighed and refelt the back of her neck. Really, really warm. He took the towel off her forehead, it went from what was once freezing cold was now soothingly hot. Owen got a new wash cloth and ran it under the cold tap. He came back and Amelia was asleep once again. Once he placed the cool compress she jolted awake again.

“My stomach hurts,” she hugged herself around her belly,

“You have a stomach ache?” Owen asked sympathetically,

“Yeah and it just hurts,”

“Are you nauseous at all?” Amelia nodded in response to his question, “From 1-10, how nauseous are you?”

She held up 7 clammy fingers. Owen brought over a small trash can, just in case. Amelia put her hands up to her neck and swallowed some spit. She winced at this simple motion. Owen got an idea, he went to the kitchen and poured a small glass of apple cider vinegar, remembering it could soothe a sore throat. He got some tylenol and advil. Then he poured more than the recommended serving of children’s motrin, grape, which Amelia said she liked better, into a little cup. Owen thought she was crazy for saying that, still did.

Owen brought the stuff into the room and set it down on the bedside table. Owen sat down on the bed and shook Amelia awake. It hurt her head,

“Ow,” she complained.

“Amelia, I need to give you some medicine,” she didn’t respond to this, her head hurt, her stomach hurt, her throat hurt. She hurt. Owen pulled her up to a sitting position, Amelia moaned in pain. He brought the vinegar to her lips and she gagged.

“This’ll soothe your throat okay?” she drank it and gagged again. Owen got the two small pills and held the glass of water. Amelia put them in her mouth and sipped the water, swallowing the pills. She was about to lie down when Owen pulled her back up. Her head flopped back and he pushed her head on his shoulder.

“Just drink this,” he handed her the purple syrup, and she pushed it away, Owen gave up and just shoved it into her mouth, she drank it forcefully.

“Ow,” Owen handed her the water and she drank it. When she swallowed she winced. He slowly lowered and tucked Amelia back in and she curled up into a ball. She knew she wasn’t getting any sleep that night.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After around 20 minutes in a feverish daze, the world came into focus by an even larger sense of nausea. Amelia groaned and it woke Owen up. She put her face over the side of the bed and over the bin he had placed. Owen immediately knew

what was happening and sat up to rub her back.

Amelia took off the wash cloth on her forehead as it was making her more nauseous. The second it hit the floor she threw up. Owen rubbed her back but it just made her want to throw up more, so she pushed it away. But this didn’t help her intentions and she threw up again. Owen sighed and kept rubbing her back while she emptied her guts. When she was done she shakily pushed herself up and took a sip of water then went back to sleep without a word. She felt like absolute shit. She was completely fine this morning. Owen went over her symptoms, knowing he should’ve done this earlier. High fever, nausea, vomiting, headache, abdominal pain, sore throat, chills.. his mind wandered off.

“Amelia, I need you to sit up a bit,” he helped her sit straight and adjusted the pillows. Owen put his hands on her neck and felt for her lymph nodes. They were swollen, how could he not have noticed this. Dammit. He got his phone and turned the flash light on.

“Amelia can you open your mouth?” she dropped it open. He looked up in the back of her mouth and saw swollen tonsils with a white pattern on them. Shit. Amelia had strep throat, it made a lot of sense from her symptoms. Owen texted Meredith telling her he’s going to bring Amelia in tomorrow. He texts that she’s been feeling sick and that he thinks she has strep. Since it was around 3 am she probably wouldn’t respond.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Owen,” Amelia whispered, he had his arms wrapped around her over-heated, sweat-dripping, aching body. “Owen!” she shook his arms lightly and he woke up.

“What-what do you need? Do you feel alright?” he asked her,

“I think I need to throw up…” her body convulsed as she vomited over the side of the bed into the bin on the floor. Before Owen could attempt to make her comfortable, she took her shirt off which left a skin tight tank top. She’s hot, even when she’s sick, Owen thinks.

Amelia threw up again and Owen rubbed her back, feeling her burning skin. He forced her some water and let her go back to sleep.

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“Amelia, if you don’t get out of bed I’m gonna have to carry you to the hospital,” Owen yelled softly,

“Nooo, all our friends are there,” Amelia whined,

“I’ll sneak you in and Meredith’s just going to do a rapid strep test and order you antibiotics. You’ll feel so much better,”

“No,”

“Amelia,”

“No,”

“Yes,”

“No,”

“Yes,”

“No-”

“Okay Amelia that’s it, I can’t watch you suffer anymore,” Owen bent down and scooped Amelia up in his arms, with her groaning the entire time,

“Stop Owen it hurts,” her face was molded into a wince,

“I know you’ll feel better soon,” he hated seeing her in pain so he kissed the top of her head. Owen was really worried with how warm she was.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Amelia was fast asleep when they got to the exam room Mer promised they’d meet them in.

“Owen?” Meredith opened the door and came in,

“Amelia?” Owen shook her awake, “Meredith’s here,” Amelia just opened her eyes and closed them,

“Amelia, I need you to sit up for me okay? I’m going to take your temperature first alright?”

Amelia slowly sat up and leaned against Owen, keeping her eyes closed. Meredith put the thermometer under her tongue and waited for it to beep. 104.5.

“104.5, really high. I’m going to start checking for strep okay Amelia?” She nodded and Meredith preceded. She felt he neck and looked for enlarge lymph nodes. When she put her fingers on her neck Amelia winced.

“What other symptoms has she had?”

“Sore throat, chills, nausea, vomiting, headache, tender lymph nodes,” Owen answered, rubbing amelia’s back. Mer noticed Amelia hugging her torso. Meredith put a wooden tongue depressor to hold her mouth open and got her penlight and looked in the back of her throat, seeing very swollen tonsils with white stripes on them.

“Amelia, I’m going to do two rapid strep tests, to make sure okay? And we’ll get you set up on antibiotics and you should feel better soon,” Meredith got the cotton swab ready. She put it to the back of Amelia’s throat which made her squirm so Owen held her back. Mer brushed it around for a second and put it in a bag to be sent to a lab.

Amelia gagged, coughed, and rubbed her throat, clearly the test caused her discomfort. Meredith stroked her head feeling the warmth and the sweat of her head.

“Only one more time alright?” Amelia nodded and tilted her head back. Mer used one hand to hold a tongue depressor on her tongue and quickly did the test with the other. Amelia gagged again but this time she looked much more sicker.

Meredith grabbed a basin and Amelia threw up into it. Owen held her hair back while Mer rubbed her back. That’s gotta be the last of it. Amelia thought. Now Amelia just dry heaved, there was nothing left in her.

“I got this, run the tests,” Owen said, Amelia took the basin and continued to heave. Meredith ran down to the lab and told them to rush it. Owen rubbed Amelia’s back,

“I think i’m-,” she started saying but she couldn’t finish and vomited again. Then she dry heaved for a few minutes and fell asleep in Owen’s lap, him still rubbing her back.

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Amelia had tested positive for strep and Mer had ordered her a weeks worth of penicillin. Within the first three days Amelia had stopped feeling so nauseous and her headache had grown much smaller, and all that was lingering was a sore throat and a fever. But this wasn’t how Amelia though things out.

“Amelia, what are you doing?” Owen asked her,

“Getting ready for work,” she responded, It was six am,

“No you’re not,” he got out of bed, “You’re still sick,”

“No I’m not,” she started changing into real clothes,

“It’s been three days since you were started on penicillin, you have to be on it at least five, to make sure the infections all gone,”

“It is,” she put on a shirt, Owen got up and put his hands on her still over warm shoulders,

“How about this, if you have no fever then i’ll let you go back to work,” she agreed with this and sat down on the bed patiently. Amelia rubbed the sharp pain that shot through her temples and Owen pretended not to notice. He got the thermometer and placed it in her mouth. Amelia watched as the temperature went up, rising well past 97 degrees. 102.3.

Amelia sighed and laid back down on the bed and continued to eat the cereal from the box she had been for the last day. Owen kissed the top of her head and left for work.

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When Owen came back the house was a mess. Bags of chips, boxes of cereal and ginger ale cans made their kitchen counter home. He made their way to the bedroom and didn’t see Amelia in bed.

“Amelia?” Owen found her sitting next to the toilet in the bathroom.

“I thought I was better so I-,” she gulped, “ate everything,” she leaned over the toilet and gripped the side with her arm then threw up,

“How many times have you thrown up?” Owen asked, rubbing her back gently as she spewed her stomach contents into the toilet.

“Um, a few times this morning, after you left, but the nausea was worse on an empty stomach, it felt better to puke, ya know, things,” she rested her head on her arm, “but then I felt nauseous again and it didn’t get any better so here we are,”

“I’ll get you some ginger ale,” he hurried into the kitchen and came back as quickly as he could. But before he was back, she felt vomit rise in the back

of her throat and she let her body take control, coughing as it left her mouth. Owen heard her start retching so he ran to the bathroom and rubbed her back.

“Just relax, you’re going to be fine,” he cooed as she heaved, when she was finished she flushed the toilet and kept her head sturdy at her arm.

“Drink this,” Owen put the straw into Amelia’s mouth and she slowly sipped the ginger ale. She winced as the bubbles made their way down her throat. He hugged her torso and let her lean on his chest.

“Owen-“ she shot forward again and coughed as the bile made its way out of her stomach and into the toilet, trying to catch her breath as her bouts of vomiting caused her body to convulse violently. She groaned knowing this was just the beginning.

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It had been an hour, between Amelia throwing up and Owen forcing medicine, saltines, and ginger ale down her throat, even though it didn’t stay down too long. She had her arms wrapped around her stomach, trying to ignore the immense pain she felt there.

“How much does your stomach hurt?” Owen moved his hands to her stomach and started massaging it.

“You don’t need to do that,” she said softly, the energy drained from her once feisty voice.

“You’re my wife, of course I do. Do you think your done?”

“Yeah,” she said and sat up, but whimpered when another wave of nausea tore at her stomach and she had to throw up again. It hurt so much each time she convulsed and was forced to give up all the food in her body.

“Breathe in slowly Amelia, and out. Keep doing this and you’ll feel better,” she did and her vomiting lessened until their was no more.

“Okay no i’m done,” Owen picked up her small sweaty body and snuggled up to her watching as she took the penicillin and advil.

“Go to sleep Mills,” she closed her eyes and let him rub her stomach.

“I love you Owen Hunt,” she whispered,

“I love you too, Amelia Shepherd.”

They hugged each other while she drifted off into a feverish sleep.

Fin.

[sickdaysofficial]

Not the Norm - July 23rd

This was written as a collab between @emetoandotherthings and myself, @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak, using her OCs Aiden and Aleks, and my OCs Darragh and Orlaith. It features a character with CVS and a hospital scene, so I guess content warnings for vomit and hospitals!

Darragh woke reluctantly.

It started off as that vague awareness of self that pulls you out of sleep, the nagging sensation that the rest of the world is waiting, as though sleep were the sea and he was swimming upwards. Then little fragments of life started to slip into his consciousness - the stale dryness of his mouth, the numb tingle of his shoulder and his upper arm - and it was like he saw the surface and suddenly didn’t want to reach it anymore.

A husky moan slipped past his lips. He still wasn’t fully awake, but he was too close to it to have a hope of falling back asleep. At first, all he could really focus on was the dreadful churning in his tummy; it was as though his stomach was on spin cycle with no clothes in, just bubbly liquid going round and round and round, and it made his brain feel blurry.

Gradually, he began to register other things. His head hurt. His lips were dry. His mouth felt like he’d been swallowing sand. Most importantly, he wasn’t actually in his bed. At that realisation, his eyes fluttered open and he was awake. Then a number of things became clear to him in very quick succession. Firstly, he was slumped on the cold floor of the bathroom, half draped over the toilet. That was why his arm was numb and his back ached and his legs were cramping. Secondly, he was walking the line between dehydrated and seriously dehydrated like it was a tightrope…and he was not a very confident funambulist.

Thirdly, he was about to be violently ill. Again.

“<i>Huuuuuuurrrrrk</i>“

His stomach jerked, as if on cue, and he rolled his face off his arm as he heaved unproductively. He sat panting, his head hanging low, one arm braced across the toilet seat and the other wrapped tightly around his cavorting tummy. He rested his head against his forearm to try and stop the dizzying pounding. It was all starting to come back to him - the rude, early morning awakening as his dinner clawed its way out of his throat, the mad scramble for the bathroom only ten minutes later, and then ten minutes after that, and ten minutes after that until he was too weak to get back to bed, the wretched monotony of retching and spitting and forcing down fluids and the brief sleepy reprieve before it all came right back up. A swooping wave of nausea rippled through him with a shudder, and his legs writhed against the cold tiles as he gasped.

“<i>Bruuaaarrrrk</i>”

Another heave tore at his throat, catching him by surprise leaving him choking on air. Coughing and gagging he heaved again, his back arching expectantly, but nothing came up. He slumped back down, shoulders still shuddering every few seconds with wretched, painful retches that scratched their way up from his gurgling stomach and raked along his tender throat. This was awful. He scrabbled through the Lucozade bottles next to him, desperate to at least have something to throw up. A weight sank in his chest when they all came up empty, and a sob broke loose. He was exhausted and sore and lonely and this was the worst episode he’d had in months, maybe even years. He’d told Orlaith that he’d be fine and that she needn’t worry, but that had been at least twelve hours ago and he really needed someone now. Someone to soothe the overworked muscles in his chest and abdomen. Someone to make sure he didn’t pass out on the bathroom floor without even a mat to lie on. Someone to reassure him that this pain wouldn’t last forever. Before he knew it, he was crying uncontrollably.

“<i>Hmmmmmmk</i>,” he gagged through tight lips as sobs swelled in his chest. His eyes itched, but no tears came. There was next to no saliva in his mouth either despite the nauseous whirlwind deep in his gut, he realised with a jolt. Even if his mam wasn’t a nurse he’d have known that this was bad.

He fumbled in his pocket for his phone. Pride be damned, if he left it any longer to call for help he might pass out on the floor and not be found for hours. As he tried to lift his head, his vision spun as though he’d been on a whirligig and black dots danced before his eyes. Bad idea. The woozy feeling snaked its way down to the pit of his stomach, and his phone dropped to the floor with a clatter as he lurched forwards for a renewed onslaught of dry heaving. When he finally managed to pick it back up, he realised how violently his hands were shaking, the exhaustion of throwing up nearly a hundred times in one day catching up with him. He snuck a glance at the time before hitting the speed dial. 11:25. Orlaith would probably still be up, he thought in relief as the phone rang. He closed his eyes while he was waiting, hoping to stem the floaty, distant feeling that was spreading across him like a blanket.

“Darragh? Babe?!” Orlaith’s voice sounded frantic. “Please wake up love.”

Her voice cracked at the end of the sentence and he forced his eyes open with extraordinary effort. Orlaith loomed over him, her lower lip trembling, and when he opened his eyes she flung her arms around him with a sob. He returned the hug with trembling arms, trying to absorb her solid warmth.

“Don’ cry love.” His voice crackled, and his attempt to clear his throat nearly made him start heaving again. “ ‘s no’ that bad.”

She drew back, and slapped him in the arm. “It is absolutely that bad you feckin’ idiot, you passed out in the time it took for a call to connect,” she choked out. “Don’t you dare ever scare me like that again.”

“Hey,” he began indignantly. “You can’t hit me I’m -”

He cut himself off with a strangled heave, too exhausted to lean back over the toilet when he knew nothing would come of it. Orlaith pulled him back into her arms and he whimpered against her shoulder, his breathing ragged. The weight of her arm round his back and the steady rise and fall of her chest made him feel more centred than he had all day. After a moment, she lifted a fresh bottle of Lucozade to his lips and he drank greedily.

“Small sips!” She admonished, pulling the bottle away before he could drink too much at once, and stroking her fingers through his sweaty hair. “I’ve called a cab to take us to the hospital, do you still keep an overnight bag packed?”

Darragh nodded wearily, his head too heavy on his neck. He’d managed to avoid being hospitalised for the six months that they’d been at uni, but luckily his paranoia about hospital gowns and boredom had prevented him from doing away with the bag he kept packed for nights under observation.

“Hung on the door,” he croaked, “you can’t miss it.”

It was, in fact the same rucksack that he’d kept for that purpose since he was little, so there was no way she’d mistake it for anything else. She helped him drink some more Lucozade, feeding him like a baby bird, then propped him against the wall as she went to get it. When she returned there was someone else with her.

“Awww mate, if I’d known you were this sick I’d have done something sooner…”

Darragh looked up. Connor, who had the bedroom next to his, stood in the doorway a guilty look of shock plastered across his face.

“Babe, Connor’s going to help you down the stairs. You’re too tall for me these days,” Orlaith explained, crouching down to rub his arm reassuringly.

The journey to the hospital was a bit hazy for Darragh, and the bits he could remember he’d rather he didn’t. The first time they’d tried to stand him up he’d promptly vomited and passed out. The second attempt had been more successful, but he had a vague recollection of sitting on the landing and sobbing that he couldn’t go any further. The taxi ride had been hell, every bump and turn and red light sending nausea spiralling through his stomach until he moaned in pain. He was pretty sure they’d been charged double for the trip after Darragh had spewed Lucozade and bile all over the old towel in Orlaith’s lap, even though none of it had touched the upholstery.

“When ‘m I seein’ th’ doctor?” He slurred hoarsely.

Orlaith ran her fingers lightly through his curls, hushing him. “Soon, I’m sure babe. They’re just a bit busy tonight, but it’ll be soon.”

She glanced around. It was a Friday night, and half the people there were completely hammered, and had blood oozing from scrapes or limbs bent at funny angles. The clock above the nurse’s desk told her that they’d been there for two hours already, and in that time Darragh had gone through a bottle and a half of Lucozade and ten emesis basins. He was curled shivering around his aching stomach, spread awkwardly across two plastic chairs with his head in her lap. His forehead was still clammy, but he’d stopped sweating some time ago and it terrified her. The more rational part of her understood that compared to drunks who were bleeding out or little old ladies with pneumonia, Darragh just simply wasn’t a priority case, but mostly she was horrified that someone so clearly dehydrated who couldn’t stop vomiting for more than ten minutes at a time could be left to suffer for so long.

“<i>Uhhhhh</i>,“ he groaned miserably, nuzzling his face into her knee. His face, which was usually pale anyway, was practically grey, his lips a tight, tense white, the only colour the red spider’s web of burst capillaries under his eyes and across his nose.

“I know love, I know,” she whispered, rubbing his arm gently. She held the bottle to his lips again. “Drink something for me.”

He pursed his lips, shaking his head minutely. “Don’ wanna be sick again,” he said, composure crumbling at the end of the sentence. He could barely hear the loud chatter of the waiting room that surrounded him, he was so sick. He had reached a point where everything felt very far away and the only thing that was real was the lancing pain in his abdomen and the pitching roll of his belly.

Orlaith put the bottle away. The last thing he needed was for her to make him cry, and they’d put him on a drip soon anyway she was certain. She was trying desperately to think of something to say to reassure him, when she heard his name being called from the desk. She hauled him up as gently as she could and together they staggered down the corridor to see the doctor.

“My name is Dr Torrance, and I will be your doctor today.”

The doctor snapped on a fresh pair of latex gloves as Orlaith eased Darragh into a chair, where he curled forward with a groan.

“Can you tell me your symptoms?”

“He has CVS.” Orlaith explained matter-of-factly. “He’s having a bad flare up and he’s dehydrated. The doctors at home usually give him Promethazine when he gets like this.” She looked up at him expectantly.

Dr Torrance nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you young lady, but if I wanted a diagnosis I would have asked for one. What I asked for, however, were his symptoms, and I would like Darragh to tell me them himself.”

Darragh took an instant dislike to this man, with his plummy, rounded accent, and his smarmy, fake smile, and his holier-than-thou attitude. He’d met plenty of doctors like this before - doctors who were determined to prove how clever they were even if it made them look stupid. And he suspected that this was one of the many doctors who would want to re-diagnose him from scratch. He forced himself to sit up straighter. The longer he took to talk, the longer it would be until they put him in a bed with a nice drip and hopefully a sedative.

“Been vomiting all day,” he began scratchily. “Four or six bouts an hour, since six o'clock. Couldn’t keep anything down, not even water. Even once I’ve thrown up, I don’t stop feeling sick, and my stomach has been really hurting. I’m cold and dizzy and I can’t stop shaking and I…” He broke off, pressing his eyes closed as he swallowed down a retch. “I realised I stopped sweating at about eleven. That’s when I called my girlfriend to bring me here.”

The doctor scribbled some notes on a pad, and then looked back up. “You said four <i>or</i> six? They’re quite different numbers.”

Darragh breathed deeply through his nose. “Sorry. Between four and six.”

Darragh slumped over to lean against Orlaith. She was still clutching a kidney bowl in her lap, and the look on her face was halfway between bewildered and furious.

“Thank you Mr Macbride, I just need to do a quick physical exam and then this will be over.”

Obediently, Darragh manoeuvred himself onto the bed to allow the doctor to poke and prod at his glands and his stomach. He was proud of himself - he only twisted over to puke once in the whole exam, even though the urge to retch pushed at the base of his throat with every press of the doctor’s fingers.

“Well,” said the doctor once they were all sat down again. “I think you probably caught a stomach bug which developed into a bad case of gastroenteritis, which is why you’ve been so sick. As you are now severely dehydrated, I’d like to keep you under observation overnight so we can push fluids and maybe give you some Ondansetron to stop the vomiting. We’ll run some blood tests too, just to make sure it’s nothing more serious, but I’m sure it will clear up over the next twenty four hours.”

Darragh buried his head in the crook of Orlaith’s neck, dreading the night ahead. He should have expected this really. Orlaith didn’t remember all the times that his mum had been told to stop overreacting when he was a kid, up to the point that the doctors had started investigating for Munchausen by proxy. She didn’t remember all the times that he’d been sent home because it was ‘just a stomach bug’, all the raised eyebrows and conversations between nurses when they thought he was asleep, but he did. Of course it would be like this at a hospital that didn’t know him or his family, and the doctors had probably never seen a case like this.

“No.”

Darragh started in surprise at the firmness in Orlaith’s tone.

“That’s not good enough.”

“I’m sorry young lady?”

Darragh could hear the anger and indignation simmering under Dr Torrance’s calm facade over the fact that he’d been challenged by a teenage girl.

“I said, it’s not good enough. He has a diagnosis of Cyclic Vomiting Syndrome, and he has a treatment plan that I gave in at the desk, and you’re choosing to ignore it. That’s not good enough. If you’d read it, you’d know that Ondansetron doesn’t work. If you give him that he won’t sleep, he’ll just be sick all night long and he won’t be miraculously better in the morning. Most of the drugs don’t really work. He needs Promethazine, or this could last for a week!”

Dr Torrance raised an eyebrow. “I have examined your boyfriend, and I have determined that this is gastroenteritis. I don’t make decisions based on the medical advice of little girls and doctors that I’ve never met. I’ve never heard of this ‘syndrome’ and for all I know you’ve invented it to get your hands on drugs.”

Orlaith gasped in outrage. “How dare you even…”

Darragh clasped her hand. “Not worth it babe. Go home, get some sleep, I’ll pull through.” He leaned in and kissed her on the cheek. He needed to vomit again, he could feel it, but that would fairly ruin his whole ‘I got this’ spiel, so he prayed his stomach would stay put until she left. She looked like she wanted to argue, so he kissed her again and nodded reassuringly even though his head felt like it was clamped in a vice.

“Visiting hours start at ten,” Dr Torrance chipped in vindictively as she left the room.

***

“<i>Krrrrcckkk! Hrrrrccchhkk!</i>” From one of the cubicles on the ward Aiden could hear rough, empty retching interspersed by weak sobs. Glancing down the list of admittees and their reasons for being in the Acute Observation Ward and when his eyes fell on a patient who had ‘Severe Gastroenteritis’ scrawled next to his name he was pretty sure he’d found the source of the retching.

As he pulled at the edge of the curtain he saw a young man, so pale he looked ghastly, lying on his side with a sick bowl wedged in between his pillow and the metal rail. He barely moved his head as Aiden entered, seemingly too weak to do so, but his eyes followed Aiden as he picked up his chart at the end of his bed.

“Darragh, is it?” Aiden asked and the young man responded with a disconsolate noise in his throat. “I’m just going to take your temperature, okay?”

“Alri-<i>hrrrrkk!</i> Ugh…” Darragh nodded, his hand wrapped around his stomach and his adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his throat as he tried to prevent himself from retching further.

“Has your nausea not died down at all?” Aiden paused and checked the admittance time, he’d been in for nearly three hours - surely the Ondansetron he’d been prescribed should have kicked in by now.

“No… not - gonna work…” Darragh forced out a croak, Aiden could see that his lips were cracked and beginning to bleed when he moved them. “Not… gastroenteritis… <i>Brrrruaaaaarrrkkk!</i>” His whole body jerked forward with the strength of the convulsion and Aiden snapped into action, he grabbed the wedged emesis bin before it spilled all over the bed and scooped Darragh up so he was more upright in the bed. He was so weak that he flopped limply into Aiden’s arm, still choking and retching although bringing nothing up.

“Alright, alright…” Aiden helped Darragh to lean forward, his face was screwed up as though in pain as with every breath his chest heaved further and the retches sounded drier and drier.

“<i> Auuurrgggh…</i> ‘M gonna - tear my oesophagus again…” He mumbled, trying to swallow back a further gag, closing his eyes because staring at the sick bowl was like tempting fate when there was nothing left inside him.

“Again?” Aiden rubbed his hand soothingly across the young man’s shoulder blades, feeling every jolt and lurch.

“When I was 11 an’ - 14 an’ 16…” Darragh rested his head back, his entire digestive tract felt like it’d been gouged out with a fork and breathing in now felt like fingernails dragging over raw skin. Hot tears spiked at the back of Darragh’s eyes as a wave of self-pity washed over him. “Please…” Darragh pleaded, his blue eyes staring up into Aiden’s face. “I <i>need</i> Promethazine…”

“Promethazine?” Aiden said blankly and Darragh nodded, tears leaking down his cheeks.

“It’s not… not gastroenteritis,” Darragh grabbed Aiden’s hand unexpectedly, and for someone who seemed so weak his grip was vice-like on Aiden. “I’ve - I’ve got - <i> hrrrrrkk!</i>” An unexpected heave had burst out of Darragh’s mouth and Aiden could feel the hand gripping onto him trembling fiercely. “Cyclical - vomiting syndrome… It won’t stop - without - Promethazine…”

“Cyclical vomiting syndrome?” Aiden frowned, trying to ease his wrist out of Darragh’s grip as he was beginning to lose sensation in his fingers; he knew he’d heard of that before but he couldn’t place where.

“Yeah…” Darragh nodded, his face looking hopeful that Aiden was listening to him. “There’s - treatment plan, in my bag…” His speech was beginning to slow down now, as though he was having to put an extra effort into making his mouth form the words.

“Do you mind if I take a look?” Aiden requested, watching as Darragh sagged back against his pillow; his face looked clammy and pale, except from the patches of red across his nose and around his eyes from the force of vomiting for so long.

“Please do,” Darragh mumbled; Aiden unzipped the toy story bag and pulled out a plastic wallet with a wad of paper inside it. He leant gently against the railing of the bed as he unfastened the stud and began to look through the contents; there were charts in which there was clear documentation of “episodes”, a medication list signed by a GP, and more generic information which Aiden thumbed through quickly. Pausing at the front page his eyes scanned over the first few lines of informatory text: <i>’ Cyclical Vomiting Syndrome (CVS) is a rare vomiting disorder most commonly seen in children, although it can affect adults too.’</i>

“CVS…” Aiden mouthed, wracking his brain for where that rung a bell and feeling frustrated when it seemed just out of reach.

“Most people haven’t heard of it,” Darragh said weakly, “like that idiot Torrance…”

“Aleks!” The answer had sprung into Aiden’s brain and Darragh jumped slightly at the suddenness of this exclamation; Aiden’s eyes were wide as a grin spread across his face, then he looked a little embarrassed at having frightened his patient. “Sorry… I just remembered, one of the trainee doctors here has CVS, perhaps I could try and get him to come see you?”

“Lord, anyone who might help, yes!” Darragh cried, then put his hand to his throat, screwing up his face in pain.

“I’ll see if he’s on shift,” Aiden nodded instantly, “I’ll be back shortly to let you know.” Aiden began to leave the cubicle, but Darragh’s voice came from behind him again.

“Nurse?”

“Yes?” Aiden paused at the edge of the cubicle and turned round.

“What’s your name?” Darragh inquired.

“Aiden,” he responded with a smile.

“Thanks Aiden…” Darragh said, and it sounded like he really meant it.

Aiden hoped that Aleks hadn’t moved on from the last rotation, because then he could be anywhere in the hospital and tracking down a trainee doctor was notoriously hard as most of the doctors and consultants hadn’t bothered to learn their names. Nurses were the lifeblood of the hospital, if anyone could help it would be them, but Aiden still felt a little nervous entering the orthopedic ward and approaching the Ward Charge nurse on shift.

“Hi, I was wondering if Dr. Wójcik is here?” Aiden asked, crossing his fingers as he leant on the desk.

“Wójcik… Long hair, right?” The nurse responded, flicking through a list stuck onto their whiteboard. “Yes, he’s just finished actually, he should be in the locker room.”

“Thanks, that’s great,” Aiden nodded in appreciation.

Aiden’s pass wouldn’t let him into the locker room, clearly his authorisation only extended to the areas in which he was supposed to be working, so he hung about outside the door, hoping that Aleks hadn’t already left - and wondering how long he could stay here before getting into trouble for not being on the ward. Finally he heard the beep of the door and Aleks emerged, changed out of his doctors scrubs with his bag on his back, clearly ready to go home.

“Aleks,” Aiden caught him unawares and he jumped slightly. “I know you’re off shift and about to go home, but I need a favour?”

“What kind of favour?” Aleks asked, looking slightly alarmed.

“Don’t worry,” Aiden reassured. “I’ve got a patient in Acute Medical who’s claiming to have Cyclical Vomiting Syndrome, but the doctor who admitted him has diagnosed it as severe gastroenteritis…”

“Ah… that old chestnut,” Aleks rolled his eyes. “You want me to come and see this guy?”

“If you don’t mind that would be great,” Aiden nodded, sighing in relief. “He’s really distressed, he’s been vomiting for over 15 hours now and he’s worried he’s going to tear his oesophagus.”

“I’ll come down, I can’t promise I can <i>do</i> anything, but I’ll give it a try,” Aleks agreed, matching Aiden’s footsteps as he returned to the ward.

Aiden’s heart started racing in his chest as he saw Dr. Whitelaw standing waiting at the desk and he looked confused as Aleks joined them at the desk.

“I didn’t think you were back on this ward Dr Wójcik,” he commented; Aleks had done an eight week placement in Acute Medical before moving on to Orthopedics.

“I’m not,” Aleks replied, “but Aiden came to find me because-”

“<i>H’kkkkrrrrccchh!</i>” A loud, harsh retch rang out across the ward.

“I’m assuming that’s the patient you were talking about,” Aleks indicated and Aiden nodded.

“Ah yes, Darragh Macbride,” Dr. Whitelaw said. “The Ondansetron doesn’t appear to be subduing his nausea.”

“It won’t if he’s got CVS,” Aleks stated firmly, “in fact, it’s likely to only make it worse. Do you mind if I speak to him?”

“Feel free,” he nodded; Aiden led Aleks to the right cubicle and drew back the curtain for him to enter. Darragh was looking worse than he had when Aiden had left, pale and drawn and clearly sapped of all energy.

“This is the trainee doctor I’d mentioned,” Aiden indicated; Darragh was breathing heavily, his chest rolling in such a way that it was clear he was fighting off renewed urges to retch, but he managed to nod slightly. “Do you mind if I show him your treatment plan?” Darragh gave a tiny shake of his head, Aiden picked up the plastic wallet that was on the end of the bed and handed it to Aleks, who rifled through it expertly.

“Has it been this bad before?” Aleks asked.

“Couple of times…” Darragh’s voice was so weak that it was almost difficult to hear.

“And you normally get prescribed Promethazine, yeah?”

“Yes…” Suddenly Darragh’s face changed, his eyes screwed up and his lip began to tremble as tears dribbled out and down his cheeks.

“Hey, hey, don’t worry,” Aiden grabbed a tissue from the box on the cabinet and very gently dabbed at the tears rolling down Darragh’s face, giving Darragh’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze simultaneously.

“It - <i> ulp</i> - hurts so much…” His hands moved to his ribs, holding them tightly to stop the pain, but his breathing was ragged as more tears poured out. “I need Promethazine… and Orlaith…”

“Orlaith is your…?” Aiden questioned slowly, still squeezing Darragh’s shoulder tightly.

“Girlfriend…” Darragh supplied, then his breath hitched in his chest and he barrelled forwards: “<i>G’kkrrrrch! Krrrrcccchh! Hrrrrkk!</i>”

“Take some deep breaths, follow me, in… out…” Aleks was round the other side of the bed from Aiden, his hand on Darragh’s upper arm and maintaining eye contact with him as he encouraged him to breathe. Darragh took a shuddering breath in with Aleks and Aiden could hear it catching in his throat as it wheezed out. Aiden thought he was trembling, but realised as he moved his hand to rub across Darragh’s shoulders that Darragh was quaking like a leaf caught in a hurricane.

“It’s okay,” Aiden muttered calmly, but he caught Aleks’ eye.

“This isn’t acceptable,” Aleks stated firmly as Darragh slowly began to calm his breathing back down to a normal rate. “I’m going to speak to Dr. Whitelaw, see if he can change your medication. He might not listen to me, but it’s worth a try.”

“Thank you…” Darragh’s eyes looked like they might be about to well up again, but Aleks patted him resolutely on his arm.

“It’s just what we with CVS have to do to make people listen, isn’t it?” Aleks said, then he left the cubicle; Aiden was just about to follow him when Darragh reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“Thank you, too…” He nodded. “You’ve gone out of your way…” Aiden shook his head with a smile.

“I’m a nurse, it’s what I do…” He shrugged, but felt that warm glow of satisfaction that was part of the reason that he’d decided to go into nursing instead of medicine. “Aleks is great, he should be able to talk Dr. Whitelaw round for you.”

“I really appreciate it…” Darragh repeated, he was rubbing his hand across his thin chest again and he began to sit slightly more upright. “��T’s gonna happen ag - <i> hrrrrrruuuurrrk!!</i>”

“You’re alright,” Aiden resumed rubbing circles into Darragh’s back, waiting for Aleks and Dr Whitelaw to come and, hopefully, relieve some of Darragh’s suffering.

It wasn’t long before Aleks was popping his head round the curtain again, Dr Whitelaw in tow. Aiden shifted quickly out of the way as the doctor approached the side of the bed.

“Mr Macbride? Dr Wójcik tells me you’ve been misdiagnosed, and I have to say that since seeing the results of your blood work I agree with him.”

From the corner of the cubicle, Aleks smirked triumphantly, looking like the cat that got the cream and the fish heads too. Aiden caught his eye and gave him a grateful smile; he didn’t mind sitting up with people, but he’d have hated to watch the poor boy suffer all night. It wasn’t, he had to admit, just a case of how distressed the boy seemed to be - it was partly because he was close enough to McKenzie’s age for Aiden to feel oddly protective of him.

“I’m going to change the medication over, and then when you’re feeling a bit better we can have a chat about how to make sure this doesn’t happen again,” Dr Whitelaw explained, giving Darragh a fatherly pat on the shoulder.

Darragh’s eyes fluttered shut in relief. “Th..thank you doctor,” he breathed, and Aiden could see some of the tension draining from his shoulders. “Oh God, thank you so much.”

As the doctor fiddled with the medication in Darragh’s IV, Aiden moved to stand by Aleks.

“I appreciate your help on this,” he murmured, keeping his voice low enough that the doctor wouldn’t hear. “I’m not sure I could have made this happen.”

Aleks shrugged. “You’d have found a way. I’ve seen you working remember, you move mountains for the people under your care. But it was good of you to come and get me, it’s good for him to know that there are other people out there who understand what he’s going through. It can be pretty lonely sometimes…” He trailed off, watching pensively as Darragh curled into himself with a shudder.

“It was good of you to come when you’re not even on shift,” Aiden countered, moving to the bed and straightening out the sheets as soon as Dr Whitelaw left the cubicle. “Speaking of, you can go now if you want. I’ve got everything under control here.”

Aleks drummed a pattern out on the bed rail with his fingertips, taking a long moment before he replied.

“I think I’ll stay here for a bit. At least until the meds kick in. It’s miserable being sick in one of these places by yourself.”

Aiden nodded, still fussing a bit over the equipment and making sure there was a clean emesis bowl on the bedside table. He’d been a bit surprised by what Aleks had said about him, but he’d noticed pretty much the same things about the trainee doctor whenever they’d worked the ward together.

“You don’t have to do that. Really. I’ll be fine.” Darragh croaked, and Aiden jumped slightly. He’d been lying so still and quiet that Aiden had hoped he might have drifted off.

Rolling his eyes, Aleks drew a chair up to the side of the bed.

“Of course I don’t, but if you don’t mind I’d like to anyway,” he said gently, laying a reassuring hand on Darragh’s shoulder. “Would it be ok?”

Darragh nodded tiredly. “Thank you, both of you, so much,” he whispered.

Aleks shook his head, rubbing his hand over Darragh’s shoulder as Aiden made some final notes on his chart.

“No worries, it’s what we do. Besides,” he added with a conspiratorial smile, “this way I can have breakfast with my boyfriend when I get home, instead of just falling asleep like I normally do. So when you think about it, this is benefitting me personally really!”

Darragh chuckled weakly, but both Aiden and Aleks could hear the strain behind it. The meds wouldn’t kick in for a bit yet, and while he looked less distressed than earlier, he had to be feeling pretty lousy.

Aiden watched for a few more minutes as Aleks talked softly to the boy - telling him about some crazy stunt his flat mates pulled, asking him about his girlfriend, his hand never leaving his shoulder - before slipping out and back to his desk. Aleks had this under control. It was going to be alright.

[elliotlikespuke]

YOU WRITE FOR YURI ON ICE???? Could you perhaps fill the prompt with Otabek? This one: Just imagine: Otabek and Yuri riding on Otabek's motorcycle. Beka wasn't feeling very well, but thought he'd be fine and the feeling would pass. Wrong.

I felt so bad doing this to my boy! I hope it’s okay, I wrote this half on a plane while my friend slept on my shoulder, so if there are any mistakes, blame it on that. I had so much fun writing for Otabek. I rarely see fics about him. Come on people, let’s make him suffer. Enjoy!

Warning: graphic descriptions of vomit under the cut.

Otabek knew his way around Almaty like the back of his hand. Having lived there since he was a kid, he was well-versed in every side street and back alley that there was, on account of his long hours exploring. Yuri, on the other hand, knew nothing of Almaty, never having even visited the country. So who was Otabek to say no to a guided tour on his motorcycle? Recently, Otabek had begun to feel better about his birthplace. He had met people who had never heard of Kazakhstan, or worse, assumed it was part of Russia. He was the first skater from Kazakhstan to make it as far as he had, and he was determined to give a name to his country. Despite his newfound national pride, his stomach was churning in a way that had nothing to do with patriotism. Since the night before, when Yuri had arrived, he had been suffering from a near constant, cramping pain in his gut. Assuming it had been something he’d eaten, he’d ignored it, and focused on receiving his friend.

Ignoring it was getting less and less realistic as they drove. His motorcycle usually created an irreplaceable feeling in Otabek’s stomach, that could be excitement or adrenaline, but today was painful and churning nausea. He had felt this way many times before, and usually it could be blamed on nerves, or hunger, or something else easily solved. This feeling, the nausea that started in his stomach and radiated through his esophagus was a frequent side-effect of car travel — why he very much preferred his motorcycle, thank you very much.

Otabek felt as though he could feel the chunks he was swallowing back against his throat, and he grimaced. He turned his attention back to the road. He couldn’t hear Yuri’s surprised and appreciative gasps at the beautiful scenery, but he felt the small rib cage expanding and contracting against his back. Adding to Otabek’s discomfort, Yuri’s lanky arms were snaked around his waist, clamped down and holding tight. Otabek’s leather jacket, worn mostly for protection, was getting unbearably hot.

A chill rolled down Otabek’s back. He felt clammy, sweaty, and stuck in traffic. He slowed the motorcycle for a red light, as Yuri yelled, “This is so cool!” over the quieting wind. Otabek wanted to respond. He wanted to give a brief history of the incredible tower over to their left. Instead, he let out a groaning gag. Yuri’s arms followed his muscles as they drew in tight, preparing to eject the small amount of food he’d eaten that day.

Yuri slowly pulled his hands away.

Otabek steeled his nerves. He was a world class figure skater, and he’d skated through worse. He swallowed heavily. He was fine. He tried to convince himself, but with a lowering morale, an increasingly wet mouth, and a small Russian boy squeezing his stomach, it was getting harder and harder to believe it.

The light turned green, and they were off again.

‘‘Are you okay?’’ Yuri shouted over the wind roaring in their ears. Not trusting himself to open his mouth or take a hand off the bike, Otabek shook his head. Yuri’s arms were wrapped around his waist again. Otabek wished he’d go back to the way he held on when they first met, just holding the bike, or barely holding onto Otabek’s jacket. He would give up the world for the closeness he had with Yuri, but at the moment it was only making him sicker.

Another sick twinge. His stomach felt heavy in his abdomen. Involuntarily he went through a list of things he’d eaten in the past few days, just to see if there was anything usual. Of course, there wasn’t, and thinking about food had made him mouth salivate unappetizingly. He had a horrible mental image of puking on his bike, or worse, hitting something in an attempt to stop quickly. He made a desperate lane change, to the furthest right lane, and did his best to not skid to a stop. His stomach felt much worse as they were stopping. As the bike slowed, his stomach protested even more. He got up abruptly, stumbled off his motorcycle, and ambled quickly but clumsily over to the building by which he had stopped.

Yuri followed with a slightly angry, ‘‘What?’’ and Otabek felt bad. Yuri truly loved riding on Otabek’s motorcycle, and he was surely enjoying the sights of Almaty. Yuri stopped when he saw Otabek place a hand on the wall and hunch over, his other hand holding his sore stomach. Under his leather jacket, his strong back rolled.

He gagged loudly, a foreign sound coming from a usually reserved man. Yuri was instilled with a sharp sense of panic. He had never had to help anyone in this way before. Usually, it was him throwing up. Otabek gagged again. Yuri approached just in time to see a flood of thick, yellowish fluid pour from his mouth after another heaving retch. Cautiously, Yuri placed a hand on the warm leather jacket in front of him. For a few moments, Otabek stilled, breathing heavily with his mouth hanging open, before he retched again.

The splash echoed loudly off the pavement, and Yuri was glad his shoes weren’t in the line of fire. Otabek was not so lucky, however. The rapidly growing puddle of sick was beginning to infringe on his leather boots. Yuri was sure his still hand on Otabek’s back was doing less for Otabek’s comfort than his own, but he left it on.

He peeked at his friend’s face. Otabek’s eyes were screwed shut with pain. His skin had taken on a grey colour, except his cheeks, which seemed almost painfully red. His mouth still hung open, small chunks still hanging in the corners of his soft lips. He gagged a few more times, unsuccessfully, and decided to simply spit whatever was left in his mouth.

He straightened. Yuri wanted to ask if he was okay, but he knew the answer. What he really needed to ask was how they were going to get back to his place now. Otabek took out a package of cinnamon gum from his coat pocket, and put one in his mouth. He answered Yuri’s question before he had even asked it.

‘‘I’m sorry, Yura. I’ll get us a cab.’’