when-jaguars-are-sick

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

I don't actually know what made me first realize it, it was kind of always part of my life. I have distinct memories of playing games with my sister with our stuffed animals, or Playmobil and without fail, every time I turned it into a medical emergency, to the point where I knew which stuffies were medically adept and which were most likely to get sick. She would always ask if they could just have a party or something, and I would be like "where's the fun in that" lol

It took me a long time to realize that amount of fascination and enjoyment of sickness/whump wasn't... normal?

And then of course with as much as I read it was always the sickfic/whump scenes, Four's fear simulation in Divergent comes to mind, or "The Darkest Minds" with great blacking out whumpy scenes. But the first time I remember flipping through a book simply to read THAT scene without rereading the whole thing first was "Invisible Ghosts" by Robyn Schneider, where one of the main characters is having a flu-like allergic reaction to ghosts. It was the first time I fell in love with something simply because of the illness.

The first sickfic I ever read was a really simple How to Train Your Dragon sickfic, but it sent me down a rabbit hole, and then I found OC sickfics, and here we are

This week's question

Thank you for the suggestion, anon!

What media made you realise that you liked whump/sickness? (Bonus: tell us about the scene or character that started it all)

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

OOH so intrigued! I haven't seen these characters before... I would love more background/lore I'm very interested in Mav's story

I don't see a romantic relationship here? so then what is his relationship with Walker?

I was so excited when Vanessa came it, I was like "ooh! I know how these characters fit together now" lol

Okay okay, so after Endzone Endgame, Vanessa switches from police to emt... why? I feel like I should know this but I don't remember 😅

Why did Vanessa show up? I mean I know Walker must have called her, but she's pretty familiar with him, so how do they know each other?

The motocross is such an interesting premise! I've never read a character involved in that, very interesting

His coach seems like an ass though, I bet there's a story there with some trauma

he smashes his head open and then KEEPS GOING 😭 and continues after his coach leaves?! That's insanity lol

In a pretty dangerous sport like that wouldn't you be fully aware of the danger of a concussion and maybe NOT GET BACK ON A BIKE??? Again, I figure there's a story and a deeper reason for it, but I was kind of laughing at that being his respose

Him holding off the breaking down until he's home was so well written, very fun to read

And the absolute crash at home, Vanessa being a kind of mean caretaker was great very no-nonsense, love the "where's Willow", the realization he has a concussion, the very strict instructions for tomorrow

So good! I love learning how your characters overlap. Is there ever a connection between the Endzone Endgame characters, and the I Think I'm Lost Again characters, or are those two separate universes?

realized the last time i wrote for these ocs i think was about a year ago… i was bored and wanted a bit of a change so here we go!

if you have any requests, comments, questions, etc., send them my way

tw for emeto, overwork, implied mental health concerns/medication adjustment, concussions

The track felt like it had teeth today.

Maverick could taste something violent in the air—dust and blood and heat and grit, sharp in the back of his throat like it was trying to claw its way out. The sun glared down in judgment. The earth was cracked, hard-packed and dry, sun-baked like ceramic. It hadn’t rained in a solid two and a half weeks and it was showing now on the track. Every rut in the dirt was a challenge. Every jump dared him.

He didn’t blink once.

The coach was yelling—“Again! That landing was sloppy! You think that’s podium form?”—but Maverick barely heard it over the engine and the roar in his own skull. His thoughts were louder. Brighter. Sharper. Hypomania had teeth too. He could feel them behind his eyes, biting down on whatever part of him still recognized limits. His doctor’s fault for upping his medicine without a backup plan. Not that such a small, silly thing would keep him off the track longer than necessary.

He liked the burn in his thighs, the way the vibrations from the bike made his bones hum, how his brain had turned into a wind tunnel of static and light and drive. So when Coach said again, Maverick went again—faster this time. Riskier. Like the throttle could quiet the war inside his chest.

It didn’t. It never did. But Maverick would be damned if he didn’t try.

The jump came wrong—angled just slightly off—and his back wheel clipped the ridge like a kiss of death. The bike twisted underneath him. He barely corrected in time, hitting the ground so hard his vision stuttered, black dots skipping across his eyes like static on an old TV.

Coach didn’t call it. Just shouted, “Do it right this time!”

So Maverick did.

Again. Again. Again.

Until his arms were trembling and his breath came in short, ragged pulls and the edges of the world were swimming—but he kept going. Because quitting would mean the coach won. Or worse—he was right.

His brain was on fire. His mouth was dry as bone, and he couldn’t tell if his jacket was soaked with sweat or if the heat had started melting him from the inside. His vision had narrowed to tunnel-length focus, like the whole world had reduced to just the next turn. The next jump. The next demand.

And then—

It hit him.

Or he hit it. He wasn’t sure which.

One rut too deep. One correction too late. One muscle twitch that didn’t fire when it should’ve.

The bike kicked sideways. Maverick’s body arced—clean through the air—and slammed into the ground with a crack that wasn’t mechanical. The impact jarred through his ribs like a tuning fork, and the back of his helmet snapped against the dirt with a thud thick enough to make the world go quiet.

Then roaring. Distant. Like water in his ears.

His vision pixelated. Stars bloomed across his field of view in blinding halos. He lay there a second longer than he meant to, waiting for the ground to stop breathing.

“Get up, Mav!” came the coach’s bark, distant but cutting. “You think a real racer lies down for a tumble?”

Maverick peeled himself off the dirt, fingers numb, one glove hanging halfway off. His knees buckled for a second but he caught himself—wobbled upright like a drunk. His helmet sat crooked on his head, the strap jabbing into his neck. His mouth tasted like copper.

He dragged the bike upright. Every muscle screamed. He fixed his glove, fixed his helmet, fixed everything he could to make it right again.

He didn’t look at the coach.

Instead, he swung a leg back over and kicked the engine into a growl. The vibrations stung through his palms, and he knew he couldn’t not finish. Not when the coach was watching. Not when something in his brain was whispering you deserve this like a prayer.

One more lap.

Just one more. Then maybe he could sit down.

Or throw up.

Or pass out.

He wasn’t sure which would come first.

-

The sun dipped low, bleeding across the track like someone had slit the sky open. Shadows stretched long and sharp over the dirt, fractured by floodlights humming half-heartedly to life. The day’s heat hadn’t left; it clung to the earth, curling off the asphalt in ripples, thick in Maverick’s lungs like smoke.

The bike trembled beneath him. He could feel it in his teeth, in the cracked spaces behind his eyes. Every rut now was a risk. His arms were jelly and his head felt like it was being squeezed in a vice—every bump throbbed behind his eyes like a strobe. But he kept going. Sloppier, sure, but faster. Sharper.

Coach had long stopped yelling. He stood with his arms crossed, backlit in silhouette, probably assuming Maverick would burn himself out. That was the strategy: let him spin until he ran out of steam or wrecked again.

But Maverick didn’t wreck. Not again.

He just gritted through it.

He overshot a corner, nearly ate it again, but corrected with a full-body twist that left his ribs screaming. The helmet was too tight now—pressing into the already tender spot at the base of his skull—but he didn’t take it off. Didn’t stop.

His vision kept tilting. Flashbulb white one second, murky gray the next. His brain was playing catch-up to his body and losing. His thoughts—usually loud—were now distorted, like a cassette tape melting in the heat.

Faster. Go faster. If you stop, it means he won. If you stop, it means you’re weak. You are not weak.

The last lap wasn’t called. Maverick just decided it was the last. Pulled into the pit like it was a victory lap, chest heaving like a dying engine, jaw locked so hard he thought he might chip a molar.

He didn’t take his helmet off right away. Couldn’t. The second he tried, the light tilted and the air inside the dome turned thick and sour—like he might throw up or blackout or both. He stayed straddling the bike, one boot planted, one foot dragging slightly off-balance.

His hands shook.

He told himself it was just from the ride.

Coach passed him without a word, just a sharp nod like you’re done. But Maverick wasn’t.

He couldn’t be.

He stayed after sundown. Alone, mostly. Just the buzz of the lights and the chirp of insects in the weeds beyond the chain link fence. He’d stripped his jacket off and slung it over the handlebars, pacing beside his bike like a caged animal. His shirt stuck to his back, soaked through with a sour layer of sweat.

The headache had become a pressure. Like something was blooming behind his eyes, swelling, pushing. His ears rang faintly—no rhythm, just static. The world had lost its edges, smearing just slightly when he turned too fast.

Still, he kept moving. More laps, probably an hour’s worth. Got off, pulled his helmet off and drank in the cool evening air like it was the only thing keeping him lucid. Checked the oil. Tightened bolts that didn’t need it. Ran gloved fingers along the tire treads like if he didn’t stop touching the bike, his body wouldn’t seize up. His skull throbbed in pulses—bright, rhythmic, mean. Then he went to get back on.

He heard the truck just as his hands reached for the straps on his helmet. Fuck.

Walker’s headlights swung across the pit like a searchlight. Maverick squinted, one hand flying up instinctively as the brightness ripped through his migraine like a blade.

“Jesus, you’re still out here?” Walker’s voice cracked through the dark like a whip. His boots hit gravel. “Mav, it’s almost ten. You didn’t answer your damn phone.”

Maverick didn’t answer. He sighed, though, and dismounted his Yamaha like it was the most normal thing in the world.

“I was working on the bike. Getting a few reps in before outdoor starts.”

“You were spiraling,” Walker muttered. He didn’t say it unkindly, just with the weary accuracy of someone who’d seen this movie before. “Coach left hours ago.”

“Coach didn’t say we were done,” Maverick deflected. His voice was hoarse, raw in the throat. He didn’t notice the way he slurred the edge of his words, or how his pupils were still too blown under the glare.

“You’re done now,” Walker said, moving past him. He started securing straps on the trailer. “Come on. Get the bike up.”

Maverick’s knees trembled when he rose. The world tilted again. He caught the edge of the seat and blinked—hard. Just a drop in blood pressure. That’s all. He could fight that. He’d fought worse.

Walker didn’t seem to notice. Didn’t seem to see how Maverick’s knuckles went white on the handlebars. Didn’t see how the left side of his jaw was clenched so tightly it made his head throb harder. Good. Better that way.

If Walker knew, he’d ask questions. And Maverick wasn’t in the mood to be looked at like that. Not by him. Not by anyone.

The bike made it into the trailer. Barely. Maverick stumbled on the ramp and passed it off like a missed step, like his boot slipped. His face was flushed, skin fever-hot, despite the night air cooling around them.

“You good?” Walker asked once, slamming the trailer latch.

“Peachy.”

He forced a grin that bared too many teeth.

The truck ride started off okay.

The AC was a godsend—icy against the heat still radiating from Maverick’s skin—but it didn’t stop the ache building behind his eyes. His head felt thick, full, like his skull was packed with wet cotton and nails. The migraine had shifted from sharp to pounding.

Walker was talking. Something casual. Not meaningless, but light—trying to keep things tethered. A play-by-play of the track, a dig at Coach’s mood, a gentle ribbing about Maverick’s refusal to pack it in earlier.

Maverick wanted to reply. Tried to.

But the second he opened his mouth, his stomach lurched.

He managed a few words. Short. Clipped. “He was riding me all day,” came out thin, strangled around the edges. His voice cracked halfway through, like his throat didn’t trust him anymore. That was how most of Maverick’s responses went. Short, clipped, strangled even.

His hand was gripping the doorframe. White-knuckled. His gloves were off, fingertips clammy and pale, and the cold air was suddenly too much. Goosebumps rose up his arms while sweat still clung at the base of his neck.

Walker glanced over once. Just once. Didn’t say anything. But Maverick knew. He knew Walker was clocking it.

So he turned more toward the window, like maybe facing the blur of motion would help.

It didn’t.

The motion of the road sent waves of nausea curling through his gut—slow at first, like sea-sick sway, but building. Up and up, climbing with every mile. There was nothing in his stomach to fight with—just remnants of too much caffeine, a protein bar sometime midmorning, and the tang of blood from biting his cheek too hard after the crash.

The gags started as throat-clears. Easy to pass off. Then one too many.

Then he had to stop talking altogether.

The third time he tried to answer Walker, it nearly turned into something else—his stomach clenched like a fist, dry and hollow, and he had to swallow it back with a twitch of his neck and a sharp breath through his nose. He pretended to yawn. Bit the inside of his lip.

It didn’t help.

His body was done. Tired of fighting. Tired of being ignored.

He could feel it rising—acid and adrenaline and pure, uncut regret. It curled beneath his ribs and sat there like a loaded gun.

Still, he forced out a sentence, voice tight:

“I’m going to shower and lay down when I get in. Head’s killing me.”

His tone was too casual. Too calm. A lie painted in even brushstrokes. And it might’ve worked—except the words ended with a thick swallow and another choked-off retch that nearly doubled him forward.

Walker didn’t answer right away.

Maverick didn’t look to see if he noticed. He kept his eyes locked on the road, lips pressed in a line, willing his stomach to settle.

Please. Not here. Not in the truck. Not in front of him.

The minutes dragged.

Every bump in the road sent pain lancing through his skull and bile up his throat. The smell of gasoline on his skin made it worse. His hands were trembling in his lap now, but he kept them fisted. Kept breathing in shallow puffs. Swallowed every five seconds like clockwork.

The driveway was a goddamn miracle when it finally appeared.

He unbuckled before Walker could stop the truck. The second it shuddered into park, Maverick flung the door open and stumbled into the yard. Gravel crunched underfoot as he lurched toward the grass, hands braced on his knees.

The first heave was dry. Violent. His whole body jerked forward like he’d been punched in the gut.

Then it came.

Sour. Scalding. Endless.

His stomach turned itself inside out—hot waves of acidic liquid and half-digested energy drinks splattering into the dirt, bitter and bright and sharp enough to make his eyes water. It burned on the way up, thick in his throat. No food to cushion it. Just rot and regret and carbonation.

His knees hit the ground. He didn’t care. Didn’t register the grass or the way it soaked into his gear.

Another retch ripped through him—louder, raw, his ribs clenching so hard his back spasmed. His vision went sideways. The migraine screamed. The pain in his head hit a crescendo like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the inside of his skull. Every gag made it worse—more pressure, more heat, more white behind his eyes.

He spit. Gasped. Wiped his mouth with a shaking hand.

Then it hit again.

A second round. Just bile this time. Sharp and frothy. His throat seized.

He groaned. Quiet. Desperate. Not from the vomiting—but from the way his body refused to stop. From the way it took his pride and kicked it in the teeth.

Behind him, he could hear Walker get out of the truck. The quiet footsteps. The shift of keys. The silence of someone watching, and knowing—even if nothing was said yet.

Maverick stayed where he was, hunched over the dirt, forearms braced against the trembling earth.

The world didn’t stop spinning.

And he knew—he knew—this was just the start.

Walker didn’t say anything right away. Just stood there, watching from the edge of the driveway while Maverick hunched over the grass like it had tried to kill him. The only sounds were the insect drone in the trees and the harsh, wet aftermath of his stomach giving up the last of what it had to offer.

Maverick spit into the dirt. Wiped his mouth on his sleeve with a hand that wouldn’t stop trembling. “I’m good,” he rasped, voice wrecked and unconvincing.

Walker didn’t argue. Not yet.

“Come on.” His voice was low, even. “Let’s get you inside.”

-

The house was dim and cool—air conditioning humming, the scent of leather and motor oil and someone’s old cologne lingering from god knows when. Maverick made it to the couch without face-planting, which he counted as a win. Still wearing half his gear, dust and dried sweat clinging to his skin in a patchwork of bad decisions and worse timing.

He sank into the cushions with a soft grunt, wincing at how the light from the kitchen sent another hot spear of pain behind his eyes. His head throbbed like it was pulsing in its own language.

Walker leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You gonna tell me what happened out there?”

Maverick squinted up at him, lips curling into a tired smirk. “Tried a stupid line. Bike didn’t like it.”

“You land on your head?”

“Nope,” Maverick said quickly—too quickly. He reached for the hem of his shirt, tugged it over his head with a hiss. His stomach muscles were still threatening mutiny. “Side. Maybe shoulder. I bounced.”

Walker’s brow ticked up. “Funny. You didn’t ride like someone who just bounced.”

Maverick shrugged. “It’s motocross, not ballet.”

“Don’t deflect.” Walker pushed off the doorframe, walked into the room, knelt briefly by the coffee table where Maverick had tossed his gloves. “You were off. Like—real off. Your balance when you got off the trailer. You puked your guts out and your pupils look like saucers. Don’t tell me it’s just the heat.”

Maverick looked away. “I’m fine, man.”

Walker didn’t fight it. Just said, “Cool. Go shower. Get changed.”

“Planning on it.” Maverick pushed up, wobbled briefly, steadied. The world swam just a touch, but he gritted his jaw and walked off down the hall, jaw locked in a scowl. He was fine. Just tired. Just overcooked. Everyone pukes now and then—

Walker’s phone was out the moment Maverick’s door shut.

-

Maverick peeled his gear off piece by piece in the shower, like every joint was rusted shut. The hot water scalded his skin but did nothing for the tremors in his legs or the brutal, pounding nausea that returned the second he leaned his head forward to wash out his hair. His neck ached. His stomach was a pit of acid. He was so dizzy he had to brace a hand against the tile just to stay upright.

And worst of all, it didn’t even register as wrong.

Just another shitty day in a long line of them. Just a body being dramatic.

By the time he dragged himself into his room, he was in sweatpants and a an old sponsor shirt, hair wet and dripping down his neck. He collapsed onto his bed sideways, not even under the covers. Just let himself lie there, facedown, arm flung over his eyes to block out the pain of the light.

The doorbell rang five minutes later.

-

Walker opened the door. Vanessa stood on the porch in boots and dark jeans, a faded black T-shirt under her EMS jacket. She wasn’t smiling.

“Where’s Willow?” Walker asked.

“Flu,” Vanessa said, “So it’s your idiot friend who needs help? Because that’s wonderful. I’ve been waiting to call him a clinical dumbass.”

“He doesn’t know you’re coming,” Walker muttered, “Or anyone, for that matter.”

“Good. I wouldn’t come if he wanted me to.”

“Be gentle.” Walker said, “He’s having a rough time.”

“Well, he should’ve thought about that,” Vanessa said. Walker gave her a look and she groaned, “Not gentle, but I won’t be an unreasonable dick.”

Walker just sighed and stepped back. “He’s in his room.”

-

Vanessa didn’t knock. She pushed Maverick’s door open with the back of her hand like she was entering a crime scene. Her eyes scanned him once—wet hair, the way his shirt clung with damp sweat, the muscle twitch in his jaw, the distinct too-pale, too-clammy flush of bad decisions catching up to him.

She turned on the light, and as expected he let out a pained sort of noise and turned toward his pillow, “Will you turn that off sunshine?”

“You look like shit,” she said flatly, flicking off the overhead light and exchanging it for a lamp instead.

Maverick groaned into the pillow. “Thanks. Real morale booster, you are.”

She walked in. Didn’t sit. Didn’t ask. Just crossed her arms.

“You concussed?”

“No.”

“Really? You’re sure about that?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Vanessa narrowed her eyes. “Walker said you puked like a frat boy after his first tequila bender. You don’t remember crashing. You can’t hold eye contact. You’re still sweating like hell and it’s been half an hour since you got home.”

Maverick shifted, peeling one eye open. “I remember crashing. I just—didn’t think I hit my head.”

“That’s the first sign of a concussion, jackass.”

“I didn’t feel it.”

“No shit,” she snapped, then looked at Maverick’s nightstand, picking up a bottle with a newer date on it. “New meds or higher dose?”

He stiffened—just enough to be noticeable.

“Don’t lie,” she said. “I can tell. You’re talking fast but processing slow. Your body’s tapping out and your brain hasn’t caught up. You think you’re fine because chemically, your brain wants to feel fine. But you’re not. You’re hyped up, wrecked, and completely in denial. So are they new or is it a dosage change.”

“Dose change,” Maverick said, “They didn’t… they only upped that one.”

“So they upped your SSRI and not your mood stabilizer? Jeez, you wonder how these people keep their licensure.” Vanessa rolled her eyes, “Sit up for me, just so I can check you out.”

Maverick’s mouth opened—then closed. He sat up a little too fast and immediately regretted it, pressing a hand to his temple.

“Fuck,” he muttered, eyes shutting tight. “Okay. Maybe I did hit my head.”

Vanessa rolled her eyes as she grabbed her penlight, checking Maverick’s reactions.

“Ya think?” Vanessa snapped. “You probably gave yourself a grade one. Your response time is shit. You look like you’re ready to hurl again, and if you do so on me I will upgrade you to a grade two. And if you push again tomorrow, you might upgrade it yourself with a side of death, congratulations.”

Maverick sighed, slumping against the headboard. “What do you want me to do? Nap forever? I’ve got practice.”

“You’ve got nothing if you scramble your brain to the point you can’t ride straight.” Her tone softened a fraction. “Look. I know how hard you push. I know where that comes from. I’ve been there. But this—this isn’t discipline. It’s self-destruction.”

He didn’t answer.

She didn’t need him to.

“Lie flat. Eyes closed. No screen time. No practice tomorrow. Fluids. Something salty. I’m leaving you a hydration packet and a granola bar.” She pulled both out of her bag, tossing them onto the bed. “And eat something tomorrow.”

Maverick picked them up like they were cursed.

“I’m serious,” she said. “You mess this up, I’m dragging you to urgent care myself. I’ll do it in my pajamas. Don’t test me.”

“Thanks for the bedside manner,” he muttered.

“I save that for people who don’t actively fight their own recovery,” she shot back.

And just like that, she was gone. Door clicking behind her.

Maverick stared at the wall, nausea ebbing and flowing like a tide he couldn’t control, body aching, heart pounding like it hadn’t finished the race yet.

But for the first time all day, he let his head fall back.

And he stayed still.

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

for the absolutely lovely anon who asked about Soren and his chronic fatigue. here you go!

if you have any requests, questions, comments, etc. send them my way!

tw chronic fatigue, nausea, exhaustion, chronic illness, flu like symptoms without actually being ‘sick’ traditionally

The airport was all glass and noise.

Terminal walls stretched skyward, gleaming with artificial dawn, while unfamiliar announcements bled through the intercom in curt German. Outside, the sky was a flat, colorless gray—neither night nor morning, just the color of exhaustion. And inside the airport, the world spun a little too fast, a little too bright, and a little too loud for Soren Castellan.

He moved like a shadow of himself, sleeves tugged low over trembling hands, the collar of Lex’s hoodie drawn high enough to graze his cheek. His suitcase wheel stuck on something, jolting him sideways, and he blinked like he’d just been shaken awake.

Lex was behind him in an instant.

“Hey.” A soft hand touched his back. “You’re drifting.”

“I’m fine,” Soren murmured. Not because he believed it—just because it was faster than explaining anything else.

But his skin was waxy and pale under the airport fluorescents, his pupils sluggish to adjust, and he hadn’t said more than ten words since they landed. He’d spent most of the flight clenching his jaw and bracing against motion, his body caught in a constant tug-of-war between nausea and numbness. Now, after ten hours in a pressurized cabin, something inside him had folded. His body was heavy. Sluggish. Every step like wading through glue.

Lex noticed. Of course he did.

He always noticed when Soren moved too carefully. When he blinked too slow, or pressed a palm against the small of his back, or drifted just a little to the right while walking, as if gravity had turned sideways.

“You slept maybe twenty minutes,” Lex said softly, trying not to crowd him. “You’re gray.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Soren muttered, a flicker of humor breaking through the fog. But his voice was raw. His fingers twitched at his side like they couldn’t remember what to do with themselves.

Lex didn’t push—not yet. He just walked with him, step for step, matching the subtle stumbles, the sway. There was a growing pit in his stomach. Not panic. Not yet. But awareness. The kind that starts behind the ribs and doesn’t leave.

The hotel shuttle was waiting outside.

By the time they reached it, Soren’s breath had turned shallow. His face had taken on that waxy sheen Lex hated—like sweat that didn’t know if it was from fever or adrenaline. He dropped into the back seat too hard, and for a second, just sat there with his head tilted against the window, eyes half-closed, like a doll set down and forgotten.

Lex slid in beside him, not speaking, but watched as Soren’s hand ghosted toward his temple, massaging the space just above his ear with slow, methodical pressure. Migraine blooming. Lex knew the signs. He’d seen this version of Soren before, but rarely in public. Rarely on tour.

And never this early in the day.

“You want something cold?” Lex asked, already reaching into his bag. “I’ve got one of those little gel packs…”

Soren shook his head once. Small. Weak.

“I’m okay.”

But when the van started moving, he flinched.

-

The hotel lobby was too warm.

Not by any fault of the building—it was elegant, modern, with quiet floors and lighting that cast soft gold across every polished surface—but to Soren, it was sweltering. Stifling. Like stepping into a glass terrarium after the long car ride from hell.

He didn’t say anything.

He stood still in front of the check-in desk, long fingers braced lightly on the marble counter, the handle of his carry-on suitcase trembling slightly beneath his hand. His face was blank—but it was the wrong kind of blank. Not composed. Not calm. Vacated.

Lex watched him from a few paces back. Arms crossed, one foot tapping. He wasn’t anxious—yet. But he was tracking. Every shift. Every pause. Every ghost of discomfort.

He saw how Soren’s eyes blinked slow and unfocused when the concierge spoke. How his other hand had curled into the sleeve of Lex’s hoodie, rubbing the soft cuff between his fingers in an absent, compulsive way. How his breathing—so often shallow when stressed—was now ragged around the edges, like he couldn’t quite get air to settle in his lungs.

Ksenia handled the ID and room assignment. She had her sunglasses on indoors, her jet-lag swagger giving way to quiet efficiency as she negotiated early check-in in fluent German. She didn’t ask how Soren was. She knew better. She glanced over once, saw him rocking just slightly on the balls of his feet like the floor wasn’t stable, and turned back to speed the process along.

When they finally got the key cards, Soren took his without a word.

He made it to the elevator.

He made it up the five floors.

He made it into the room.

Barely.

The moment the door shut behind them, he dropped the act.

Soren let go of the suitcase handle like it burned him. His knees wobbled beneath him—just once—but Lex caught the motion. He didn’t lurch or stagger. He just folded, one hand catching the edge of the desk, the other clenching briefly in the fabric of his jeans.

Lex was across the room in seconds. “Okay, hey. Bed. Come on.”

“I’m fine,” Soren said, voice shredded, as if scraped across gravel.

“You’re so full of shit, love.” It wasn’t said with venom. It was soft. Firm. The kind of unshakeable calm Lex used when Soren was spiraling and didn’t know it yet. “Sit down before your nervous system does it for you. I speak from experience… that fucking sucks.”

Soren did sit—but with reluctance, lowering himself to the edge of the bed like he didn’t trust the frame to hold his weight. His elbows dropped to his knees. Head in his hands. The fabric of the hoodie clung to his back, damp with sweat.

Lex crouched in front of him.

“Soren. Look at me.”

He didn’t.

So Lex reached up and gently pushed his hair back—sticky at the roots, skin too warm—and asked, quieter, “What hurts the most?”

A pause.

Then: “I don’t know.” Soft. Broken. “Everything’s just… off.”

Lex swallowed. That was not good.

He stood up, started pacing—restless, calculating. “Okay. Okay. You need water. And something cold. No meds yet—if your stomach’s gone, it’ll just come right back up.”

“I’m not going to throw up.”

“You always say that right before you throw up.”

Silence.

Then a weak huff of breath that might have been a laugh.

Lex looked at him—really looked. Soren’s eyes were red-rimmed and glassy. His legs trembled where they rested against the bed. He was white as paper except for a flushed patch across his cheekbone. The migraine had to be growing—he kept pinching at the inside of his brow, trying to will the pain away.

“Alright,” Lex said at last, biting his lip. “I’m getting Ksenia. She can juggle the schedule better than I can. I’ll grab some cold towels on the way.”

Soren flinched.

“Lex, don’t—don’t make a thing out of it.”

Lex turned back. “It is a thing.”

“It doesn’t have to be.” Soren’s hands curled into fists on the bedspread. “I can still do it. I just need to—rest. A little. We’ve done worse.”

Lex stared at him. “Have we?”

Soren didn’t answer.

Lex stepped into the hallway and exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours.

Ksenia was just coming down the corridor, her phone already in hand, hair pulled up into a messy topknot that somehow still looked runway-ready.

“He’s not okay,” Lex said without preamble.

“No shit,” she muttered. “He looked like a ghost at check-in.”

“He’s not okay, Ksenia. He’s trying to push through, and if he keeps pushing, he’s going to crash hard. I need—” Lex paused, biting down on the panic rising in his throat. “I need help figuring out how to pull him out without pulling the tour off the rails.”

Ksenia’s expression sobered. “Alright. Let’s triage.”

Lex leaned back against the cool wall, hands fidgeting at the seams of his shirt, while Ksenia flipped through her calendar app with the practiced ruthlessness of someone who’d talked more than one executive out of a crisis.

“Okay,” she murmured, scrolling, “we can’t cancel the interview. It’s tied to the local press package for the venue—they already cross-booked it with two radio stations. If we pull, we tank the regional PR budget.”

Lex exhaled through his nose. “So we’re stuck.”

“We’re flexible,” she corrected, eyes sharp. “We can have them move it to the venue greenroom. No lighting rig. No stage. I’ll tell them it’s to shoot behind-the-scenes footage. We say it’s more intimate that way. Artistic.”

“God, you’re terrifying,” Lex murmured, and scrubbed his hand down his face.

She raised an eyebrow. “I do my best work when people are about to pass out. Speaking of.”

Lex straightened. “I’ve got him horizontal. Cold towels. He’s not throwing up yet, but if he does, I think we’re past the ‘give him tea and a hoodie’ phase.”

Ksenia’s smile flickered, brief and wry. “We’re already past that phase.”

There was a beat of quiet.

Then Lex said, softly, “He’s trying to pretend this isn’t happening.”

Ksenia didn’t respond immediately. She just nodded once, gaze dropping. “We’ll cover him. But I wasn’t asking about him.”

Lex hesitated, sighing softly, before checking his watch.

“I’m good,” Lex said, tilting the screen to face her.

“125 is not ‘good’ Lex,” Ksenia huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose, “You know what… one crisis is enough. Just… take a salt tablet before the interview or something.”

—

The venue greenroom had been cleared and softened.

Low lighting, clean water, a bowl of cut fruit and electrolyte packets that definitely weren’t part of the original catering rider. Ksenia had spoken to the radio hosts personally. Told them the band had a rough flight. Lex had “fainted”—a detail tossed out casually with a practiced shrug. Soren had “been up all night with him.” And that was why they both looked a little strung out. Nothing dramatic. No reason to pry.

Just exhausted artists. The story fit like a glove.

Soren entered the space slow and quiet, sunglasses on, hoodie hood up again. The lights were dim but still felt like they scraped his eyes raw. He moved as if gravity had thickened around him, skin too tight, limbs uncertain. Lex followed close behind, body language casual—almost lazy—but every inch of him tuned to Soren’s frequency.

He didn’t touch him at first. Not directly. But when Soren sank down into the corner of the plush couch, Lex took the spot beside him without hesitation. Close. Intimate. Easy. The way they always were in interviews.

But this time?

This time, it was tactical.

Lex’s thigh pressed lightly to Soren’s. His arm draped across the back of the couch—not possessive, but steady. Anchoring. If Soren listed even slightly, he’d have something to lean on. His fingers idly found the curve of Soren’s upper arm and began to draw small, barely-there circles through the fabric of the hoodie. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to say, I’m here. I know. Breathe.

Ksenia took the nearest chair. Radiant. Confident. Legs crossed like a queen at court. She leaned in when the interviewer began, voice warm and magnetic.

Lex did the same.

They controlled the room.

The interview started easy. Softball questions. What was the last thing they listened to on the plane? What city had surprised them most on tour?

Ksenia gave a charming answer about an espresso stand in Helsinki. Lex told a half-true story about getting locked out of the hotel. Laughter. Lightness.

Then—

“Soren,” the interviewer asked brightly, “you’ve been pretty quiet—what’s been your favorite moment on this leg of the tour?”

There was a pause.

Lex could feel it happen.

Soren turned his head slightly toward the sound of his name, but the expression behind his sunglasses was a second too slow. Like the question had traveled through molasses before reaching his brain.

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Lex’s fingers curled gently, deliberately, around Soren’s wrist.

Then he leaned forward with an easy, self-deprecating grin.

“Oh, he’s distracted because I kind of… fainted in the hotel lobby this morning,” he said, voice perfectly light. “Didn’t even make it to the elevator. I mean, I’m fine—just travel nonsense, jet lag maybe? And I mean the change in pressure does me no favors—but he’s been playing nurse since we landed, poor guy.”

That earned a sympathetic laugh from the interviewer, who turned their attention back to Lex. “Yikes. You alright now?”

“Nothing a liter of water, some salt, and some judgment from Ksenia couldn’t fix.”

More laughter.

The spotlight moved on.

Soren shifted, barely, in his seat.

Lex turned his head a fraction and whispered, “You’re okay. Just sit in the quiet. I’ve got it.”

Soren didn’t speak. But he leaned just slightly into Lex’s side—just enough that his shoulder came to rest beneath Lex’s outstretched arm, like it was always meant to be there. And when Lex resumed speaking, voice bright and practiced, he felt the smallest exhale from the man beside him.

A surrender.

Not to the sickness. But to safety.

—

By the time they left the venue, Soren wasn’t walking so much as drifting.

He followed behind Lex like a ghost tethered to him by threadbare string. His hood was up again, drawn low over his eyes, and his arms hung stiff at his sides, fingers curled like he’d forgotten how to hold them. He didn’t speak. Didn’t look up. His lips were bloodless. His gait uneven. One of his shoes wasn’t even fully tied.

No one said anything.

Not Ksenia. Not the crew. No one dared touch the moment. They just cleared space as he passed through, quiet and reverent, like something sacred was unraveling.

Because they’d all seen the show. They knew what it had cost.

He’d made it through the set like a phantom—vocals flawless, timing crisp—but the spark had been gone. The fire in his eyes, the reach of his hands, the subtle shifts of expression that usually drew the audience in like gravity—all dulled. Muted. Held together by sheer force of will.

He had leaned on Lex more than once—literally. During a lighting transition, in the wings between songs. Just a hand on Lex’s shoulder. Just a breath too long to be casual.

Lex had played along. Pulled him in like it was part of the act. Kept the crowd enraptured.

But now?

Now Soren was spent. Burned through. The mask was gone, and the man beneath it was falling apart.

The hotel room was dim, quiet, still.

Lex moved fast. Controlled. Efficient. He kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot and guided Soren to the bed with both hands on his shoulders. Not firm. Not forceful. Just present.

Soren collapsed like his legs had stopped listening entirely.

He made a low, guttural sound—not pain, exactly, more like exhaustion personified, a broken hum that vibrated at the edges of his breath.

Lex crouched down in front of him. “Alright, hey. Breathe for me, okay? Just stay here. I’m going to get—”

Soren gagged.

It was so sudden, so sharp, Lex nearly toppled backward.

He lunged to grab the wastebasket from beside the desk and slid it into place just in time. Soren leaned forward, trembling violently now, shoulders heaving—and vomited so hard it sounded like his lungs might come up with it.

It was mostly bile. Watery, acidic, brutal.

Lex didn’t flinch.

He moved to kneel beside him, bracing Soren with a hand on his back, the other carding through damp, tangled strands of hair.

“There you go,” he murmured, steady and soft. “Get it out. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Soren’s body kept convulsing, wrung out by waves of pure exhaustion—his muscles firing wrong, breath catching in shallow, fluttering gasps between dry heaves. His shirt clung to his spine, soaked through. He was burning hot and ice-cold all at once, skin clammy and flushed, a miserable contradiction of symptoms.

Lex stayed close. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak unless he had to.

When the retching finally stopped, Soren sagged forward, still shivering, his forehead pressed to the inside of his arm, breath rattling in short, staccato bursts.

“I can’t—” he croaked. “I can’t—Lex, I can’t do this.”

Lex’s heart twisted so violently it felt like a punch to the ribs.

He moved the wastebasket aside and eased Soren upright just enough to wrap his arms around him, drawing him close—tight, like a shell around a storm.

“You did do it,” he whispered into Soren’s shoulder. “You did everything you were supposed to. You made it. And now it’s over. That’s it, angel. No more stages. Just me and you.”

Soren shook his head. “I feel sick. I feel wrong.”

“I know.”

“I can’t think.”

“You don’t have to.”

His pulse was erratic. His breath too fast. Lex could feel the strain in every part of him—like his whole nervous system was on the verge of crashing. And Lex knew this. He knew this shape of Soren. It wasn’t just fatigue. It was a full-body rebellion. A system override.

Lex shifted into gear.

He got Soren out of the hoodie first.

Peeled it off with practiced care, whispering apologies when Soren flinched at the change in temperature. Then the shirt. Then the socks. All of it sweat-soaked, clinging. He got him into soft, clean clothes—oversized shirt, fresh sweats—while murmuring reassurances, keeping his tone low and even.

The room had already been prepared. Lights dimmed. Cooling towel in the fridge. Lex laid Soren down with slow hands, adjusted the pillows, placed the towel gently across his brow. He pulled a soft blanket up over his hips, just enough pressure to ground him.

Then he sat on the edge of the bed, one leg folded up beside him, and brushed his fingers through Soren’s damp hair with an almost feverish tenderness.

Soren’s eyes fluttered open—glassy, unfocused. His lips moved without sound.

Lex leaned in. “What is it?”

“…did I ruin it?”

Lex’s chest caved in.

“No,” he said fiercely. “You didn’t ruin a thing. You were brilliant. You gave them everything you had. And now you’re allowed to fall apart.”

A beat.

Then Soren whispered, “I hate this. I hate being like this.”

Lex leaned his forehead to Soren’s temple, closing his eyes.

“I know, sweetheart. I know you do. But I’d rather take care of you like this a hundred times than ever let you do it alone.”

Night bled into something darker.

Not midnight. Not morning. That hollow, unnamed stretch of time when clocks lose meaning and everything feels too quiet.

The room was dark, save for the amber glow of a bedside lamp dimmed low. The air was cool but not cold, the way Lex knew Soren needed it—his system fragile now, unable to regulate heat, to decide if it was burning or freezing. Even under two blankets, his skin was damp with sweat. His hair clung to his forehead. His breathing came in shallow, irregular waves.

He had fallen asleep. Twice. Maybe three times. But never long enough. Never deep enough.

Lex sat beside him through it all, curled against the headboard with a book he hadn’t turned a page of in hours. Every time Soren stirred, Lex was already moving—reaching, adjusting, soothing.

The vomiting came in waves.

Sometimes Soren managed to lurch to the bathroom—Lex always followed, steady hands at his back, whispering soft nothings while Soren retched so hard he sobbed between gasps. Other times, he didn’t make it. Lex had towels ready. Wipes. Water. A clean shirt every time.

By 3 a.m., Soren couldn’t walk anymore. His limbs weren’t working right—like they belonged to someone else. His speech, always gentle and delayed, had frayed into near silence. The words were there, but they wouldn’t come out in order. His mouth wouldn’t shape them right. His tongue felt heavy. He stopped trying.

Lex didn’t need him to speak.

When Soren woke again—closer to dawn than night—it was because his body was screaming.

Not loudly. Not audibly. Just… in agony. His spine ached. His hips throbbed like bruises under the skin. His fingers were stiff. His jaw clenched from clenching too long. Even blinking made his temples pulse.

He tried to turn onto his side and whimpered, throat raw.

Lex was at his side in a heartbeat.

“Don’t move,” he whispered, already sliding one hand beneath Soren’s back to reposition him. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

The movement was slow. Gentle. Precision care. Lex coaxed him onto his side, into a curled position that eased the stretch in his back. Pillows appeared—one behind his knees, one under his arm. Lex adjusted the blanket, the cold towel, the dim light. Everything meticulously arranged to reduce even the slightest friction.

Soren made a noise—tiny and helpless—his lips parting around a word he couldn’t form.

Lex brushed his knuckles across his cheek.

“Don’t force it. You don’t need words right now.”

He leaned down, kissed Soren’s brow, then rested his forehead there for a long moment, breathing with him. Letting their inhales sync. Grounding. Anchoring.

“You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

The next hours passed in pulses.

Soren drifted in and out of sleep like a paper boat caught in weak currents. Never fully submerged. Never fully awake. He shivered and sweated, a low-grade fever skimming just beneath the surface, never high enough to alarm but enough to keep his head buzzing. His stomach rebelled every few hours, even when empty. His muscles ached like he’d been beaten.

And still—Lex stayed.

Lex thrived.

Not in some romanticized way. Not because he enjoyed seeing Soren like this. But because when things were this bad, Lex didn’t freeze. Didn’t panic. He acted. Moved with purpose. With quiet devotion.

He massaged Soren’s hands when they curled too tight.

He rubbed his calves to ease the cramps when spasms woke him.

He whispered to him in a lullaby cadence—fragments of old lyrics, inside jokes, promises he didn’t need to keep because his presence was the promise.

At one point, late morning, Soren stirred again—just barely. His mouth moved. Lips dry. Lex leaned in.

“Mm?” he hummed. “Talk to me.”

“…ss-s… ss… s’rry,” Soren croaked. Not even a whisper. A shiver of sound.

Lex’s throat closed. He ran a hand down Soren’s hair.

“Don’t. Don’t ever apologize.”

Soren tried again. “Buh… burdn…”

“No.” Lex’s voice broke, sharp and fast, the only sharp thing he’d allowed himself in hours. “No, Soren. You are not a burden. You are not something to carry. You are something I choose to love. Every time.”

Soren blinked slowly. His lips parted again. A word hovered.

Lex pressed his fingers gently to his lips.

“Later,” he whispered. “Tell me later. When you’re stronger.”

And Soren… let it go. Let himself fall back into sleep with a tiny sigh, a small surrender.

By the time afternoon crept in, the worst of the spell had passed.

Soren was still wrecked—sick, wrung out, pale and trembling—but the vomiting had slowed. The fever had begun to ease. He was sleeping deeper now. Less restless.

Lex had changed the sheets twice. Swapped towels. Texted Ksenia updates every hour. Turned down the day’s press entirely with a single message: He’s sick. We’re not leaving the room.

There was no apology in it.

He didn’t need one.

Because for once, Soren wasn’t the one holding everything up.

Lex was.

And he’d do it again tomorrow. And the next day. As long as it took.

Because this wasn’t weakness. This was illness. And illness didn’t make Soren less.

It just meant today, he needed someone to hold the weight with him.

The knock came just after dusk.

It was soft—barely there—but Lex heard it anyway. He rose from the bed with the fluid quiet of someone who’d spent the whole day in stillness and knew exactly how to move without disturbing anything. Soren, finally asleep again, didn’t stir.

Lex opened the door to find Ksenia standing there, a paper bag of takeout in one hand, two drink trays tucked under her arm. The scent of warm rice, something herbal and mild, drifted up between them.

She raised a brow. “Ceasefire meal delivery.”

Lex smiled, slow and tired. “You’re a saint.”

“I’m aware,” she said dryly. “How’s he doing?”

Lex glanced back toward the bed before stepping aside. “Better. Not good. But better.”

She stepped inside—and stopped cold.

Because it wasn’t just a sickroom.

It was Lex’s work of art.

The room was dim and meticulous.

The main lamp had been replaced by a salt light on the table, casting warm amber over everything. The sheets had been freshly smoothed, the bed layered in breathable blankets that didn’t press too heavy. A washcloth—damp and folded—rested in the ice bin beside the bed, a few cubes still grasping to their form in their melted counterparts. The air smelled faintly of lavender and peppermint, something Lex must’ve pulled from one of his tea blends and repurposed into an oil diffuser rigged from a hotel mug.

Soren lay on his side, facing the door. Still pale. Still visibly sick. But he was sleeping deeper now—breathing evenly, one hand curled into the fabric at his chest, not in pain but in comfort. A quiet cling.

Lex moved through the room like it was a familiar ritual.

He took the bag from Ksenia, set it on the small table. Unpacked three containers—two full portions and a third, lighter one. Vegetable soup. Plain rice. Tea.

He opened a water bottle, poured a fresh glass, and set it by the bed with slow, practiced ease.

“You do this a lot,” Ksenia said finally, watching him.

Lex didn’t look up. “I don’t mind.”

“No,” she said. “I didn’t say that.”

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes soft, shadowed with wear. “I didn’t used to know how to take care of people.”

Ksenia tilted her head. “What changed?”

Lex’s voice went quiet.

“I stopped waiting for someone to take care of me.”

And there it was. That quiet, unspoken history. The nights on cold concrete. The sickness left untreated. The hollow days in rehab where he’d laid in bed and was stuck with every god forsaken withdrawal symptom that made him shaky and nauseous and dizzy and still fucked him up if the doctors gave him even the wrong nausea medicine. It happened with the promethazine in Los Angeles, let alone the countless times they tried to give him anything else All the moments he’d been too much, or not enough, or simply left behind.

So now—he doesn’t leave. Not when someone he loves is suffering.

“I know what it feels like to be alone in it,” Lex murmured. “To be so sick and scared you think maybe no one will ever help. Especially being chronically sick. I’ll never let him feel that.”

Ksenia didn’t reply right away.

She just watched him return to the bedside, saw the way he brushed Soren’s hair back with reverent fingers. Not fussing. Just being there.

“Lex,” she said gently, “you’re not just helping him get better.”

Lex looked up, unsure.

“You’re letting him be sick,” she said. “Without guilt. Without shame. You have no idea how rare that is.”

Lex’s throat worked around something he didn’t say.

An hour later, Soren stirred.

It was slow—like the tide inching back across a beach. He shifted first, curling in a little tighter beneath the blanket. Then his brows knit, and his lips parted on a soft, confused breath.

Lex was already beside him again.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You’re alright.”

Soren blinked up at him. Still glassy, but aware now. There was more behind his eyes.

Lex helped him sit up, guiding him with careful arms beneath his shoulders, letting him lean against the stack of pillows.

“Time?”

“Little after ten.”

Soren nodded once. Then frowned. “H-h-head—hurts.”

“I know. Still light-sensitive?”

Soren gave the smallest shrug.

Lex reached past him to dim the light further, dropping the tone to the lowest it could go without blacking the room entirely. He reached for the smallest container—the soup—and unscrewed the lid.

“You think you can try a little?” he asked.

Soren looked down. Blinked. Nodded.

Lex steadied the bowl. Lifted a spoon. Didn’t offer to feed him—just held it close enough, stable enough, that Soren could lean in and take the first mouthful without much effort.

It took time. Every few bites, Soren paused, breath fluttering, hands shaking.

Lex never rushed him.

Between bites, Soren whispered, “I—smell—peppermint?”

“Yeah. Put some in the air. Easier to breathe.”

Soren gave him a look. Not quite a smile. But something close.

Then, haltingly: “Th-thank you.”

Lex touched his shoulder. “You don’t have to thank me.”

“D-do,” Soren said, throat thick. “Because I… I w-wouldn’t h-have—m-m-managed.”

Lex’s gaze went soft. “That’s the point, love. You’re not supposed to manage alone. You think you’re ready to sleep some more? Wake you up a little bit.”

“Only if you stay with me,” Soren said, tugging Lex down with him once Lex set the soup aside.

“Wouldn’t dream of going anywhere else,” Lex shrugged.

—

Soren woke to stillness.

Not silence—never that. The city was alive outside the window, soft with Sunday noise: a car horn somewhere far away, the murmur of pedestrians, a dog barking once, twice, then fading. But inside, the hotel room was hushed. Dim and warm. The scent of peppermint still lingered in the air, mingled now with something faintly herbal and sweet—Lex’s tea, left half-full on the nightstand.

Soren didn’t move at first.

His body couldn’t yet. Limbs still heavy. Muscles stiff. But his mind was clearer. He could breathe without nausea slithering up his throat. His head still ached, but it had dulled into something bearable. Manageable. Like the end of a storm.

And Lex—Lex was there, asleep, curled on the other bed.

Not under the blanket, but atop it, sideways, one arm curled loosely around a pillow, the other resting over his chest. His long hair was still braided, those braids Malik give him to keep him cooled off, but the braids were beginning to loosen—wisps curling free at his temples, ends fraying just enough to suggest a few days of care and not enough sleep. He looked rumpled, flushed at the cheeks, mouth slightly parted with breath, the deep exhaustion of someone who hadn’t rested until they absolutely had to.

Soren’s gaze tracked the curve of his spine, the gentle slope of his back where the oversized hoodie gathered around him. He followed the stray lock of hair that had escaped to tickle Lex’s cheek. The way his fingers had curled halfway toward a fist—not tight, not stressed, just tucked, like he was trying to hold something even in sleep.

Beautiful, Soren thought, and it wasn’t a soft thought.

It was heavy. Fierce.

Not just love but reverence.

Because Lex didn’t just care—he poured himself out for the people he loved. Without pause. Without complaint. And it wasn’t grand gestures. It was this: a room transformed into calm. Tea steeped with intention. Every pillow adjusted, every light softened, every hour counted not in minutes but in how best to ease the suffering of someone else.

Soren knew it, and he adored him for it.

But he also noticed the little things. The things no one else ever would.

Like the fact that Lex was still wearing his smartwatch. The face of it dimmed, but Soren could just make out the heart rate reading—too high for deep sleep. Too steady to be anything but dysautonomia kicking in again, keeping Lex’s system running like an engine that didn’t know how to idle.

And there—on the dresser beside Lex’s open bag—a pill organizer. One of the portable ones Lex always brought on tour. Color-coded. Divided by time of day. Soren squinted.

Two nights missing.

Untouched.

Soren’s chest tightened.

Lex never forgot his meds. Not unless something else was more important.

Soren’s throat went dry. Not from nausea this time. But from something deeper. Older. The weight of knowing Lex thrived in caregiving because he’d never been given that care himself. Because he only knew how to stay at the cost of his own rest, his own pain, his own rhythm.

Soren closed his eyes for a moment.

Not to shut it out.

But to hold it.

Then, slowly—achingly—he turned toward the nightstand and reached for the cooling cup of tea Lex had left for him. He didn’t drink it. Just held it.

Lex had taken care of him. So well it had hurt to watch.

Soren leaned down, giving Lex a soft kiss.

“God, you’re impossible, angel.”

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

Some of these were really easy, and some I don't think I've discovered yet, but here's what I've got

Colin: Maybe just his hoodies, big and comfortable. Also his phone, he does not have the attention span to lie in bed. So that way he can watch shows, play games

Rowyn: Honestly just a warm body to snuggle with, preferably Colin, ooh and Apple

Jamie: A book he’s read about a hundred times. It changes based on moods and vibes, but usually something he read when he was younger that could be a little fluffier

Keegan: I’m not sure he really has one? He’s really bad at actually recognizing when he’s sick, and then he has few objects that he would actually attach a sentimental value to, and nothing really from his childhood. 

Alix: How to Train Your Dragon is their comfort movie, they watched it with Jay one night when they were staying over to avoid parentals, they later watched it with their sister, and it’s just a safe thing for him

Jayden: There’s a blanket that his mom knitted for him before he moved out, and it’s just large and cozy and warm, and it has some weight to it, so that’s very comforting for him

Charlie: She has a stuffed rabbit named “Bunny” that’s one of the few important things that came with her when she moved in with Jay. She’s had it as long as she can remember, and when she was younger Bunny came with her to everything medical (doctors appointments, vaccines, dentists, hospital because *diabetes*), so it’s a comforting and familiar thing when she’s not feeling well.

Max: They have this really old worn in pair of sweatpants, and a small collection of shirts/sweaters they stole from their dad, they almost always wear these when they’re not feeling well because they are big and baggy and soft

Julie: Right now, not much, because she’s kind of on her own, so she doesn’t recognize anything in that way. It’s probably just the comfortable clothing she wears, because otherwise she’s pretty put together, so when she’s sick her standards fall and she wears sweatpants and worn t-shirts that she probably wouldn’t wear otherwise.

Leo: this is tough because Leo’s kind of always sick, so it doesn’t stand out for him in the same way. There’s things he always has around that help him manage his body, but I guess on bad days it would be his wheelchair? Because while not particularly comfortable for him, it gives him more independence and mobility. This would also kind of include his cane and other mobility aids too. OOH, his necklace is kind of a comfort object 100% of the time, not just when he’s feeling bad. His previous boyfriend had a matching one, and he always wears it. Also his dog, Birch, is just the ultimate companion and comfort for him.

For the writers: What is your OC's comfort item for when they're sick?

Here is this week's question - mostly for writers, but if a non-writer has something to say, go ahead! Answer in the blog and then reblog to your own page.

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

Favourite:

I'm pretty easy when it comes to the reason for emeto, I like pretty much anything on that front, and I like basically any form of caretaking

I definitely do enjoy emeto for emotional reasons that aren't necessarily because of an illness, but rather a nightmare, panic attack, angst etc

When it’s in addition to a plot or has importance to a story

When it shows character development!

When it brings out a different side of personality!

Least favourite:

Kinky stuff just because i’m ace and can never get fully on board with it; i might read it but will definitely skim/skip anything explicit and will not interact with it, but that's true always not because there's emeto

So far I’ve struggled to write belly rubs/upset stomach/overeating type things that do not result in emeto, but I’m working on it, and I like reading those tropes, just haven’t gotten it to my own characters yet

Oh, also emeto because of alcohol is something I struggle to get fully on board with, and can't really foresee myself writing, but I don't mind reading it

Sunday Sickness - 1

What are your favorite (and least favorite) sickfick or emeto tropes?

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

it's soooo sad. I knew it was coming, and I'm glad they have strong reactions to the news, but they both just feel so small.

And I guess I ran out of tags? don't think that's happened to me before lol

okay so continuing here then I guess... but if rip didn't notice with his observance and wolfishness then maybe there were no signs. but anyway, rip reframing the situation based on his own experiences, and showing isaiah that the tools he gives them could give them purpose as well. beautiful. that's what isaiah needed to hopefully get rid of some of the guilt and appreciate what matt is doing for his family. and that matt's not angry, he's hopeful, and trying to find a purpose. that isaish wouldn't stop matt or rip from leaving, but still needs the reassurance 💔.

and i haven't even mentioned the nausea or chest pain yet. it was so so good. rip was so assured here? we haven't seen that kind of confident caretaker vibe from him yet, it was so lovely to see him looking after isaiah so calmly and still maintaining that kind of professionalism about him.

After Matthew Left

You can read Matthew's letter here. This is the aftermath of him leaving after the group comes home from the trip.

Seline stood next to the bed Isaiah was lying in, budled up in blankets like he was cold, at her wits end.

Isaiah wasn't in his bed. He was in Matthew's.

When they came home from the road trip, tired, excited, looking forward to share in on the adventures with their backbone member, they found a silent apartment. And a letter on Matt's bed, the closet empty, his things packed up in the cellar.

There was just that damn letter on the nightstand instead of an explanation.

Isaiah sat on that bed, reading the letter over and over with such a shocked expression Seline worried he would have a heart episode.

She wasn't sure what to think. Didn't have time for it. Seeing as Isaiah sat at that spot unmoving for a couple of hours while packed out their things, ordered groceries and just in general tried to get their life going again...

But what was she supposed to say? It was already done. It wasn't a question or a debate or something opend up with them to discuss.

Matthew simply made his decision. Been busy during their trip, obviously, organising his sisters and his departure like this.

Didn't mention it in the messages or calls, though now that she scrolled through them they were short and distracted and distant.

Whatever. She had switched off her emotions when she was first bullied in school for not knowing German, when the point of going there was to learn it. She switched off her emotions when she fought with her witch "friends" after high school or when she didn't need people for the first couple of years at the university.

She could switch off right now too. She could function. She should, since there were people in her care who might not.

Needless to say, after the frozen state Isaiah got in, he ended up sleeping in Matt's empty bed and his old covers. Probably drawn to the lingering scent of him.

In the evening, he developed a fever. Of course.

Really, it was a brilliant way of leaving. Without contact to Matthew's shadow in the past weeks, she couldn't track him with her magic. Or only very vaguely. If she focused on the part of her inside where her love for Matt resided she felt like she could tell Matt was alright. Alive, at least.

But leaving like this, no way to contact him or them, his phone number canceled...

So stupid.

But hey, she wasn't feeling anything anymore. If she focused, there was just a neutral zone where the hurt should have been—and that was always better than pain for things she couldn't change.

That night, Seline ended up on the couch. She didn't want to be so far away as her bedroom upstairs when Isaiah was this feverish, but she also couldn't take being in that room with him.

The couch smelled of dust and it was deeper in the place where Matthew used to sit.

She couldn't fall asleep. Instead, she called her parents to update them on the trip, talked her grandfather's ear off, prepared things for uni the next day. She had workshops and lectures to lead and to attend, she was finishing her MA, she needed to schedule talks with supervisors about her possible PhD topic and job offers, she really didn't have time to be slowed down by something like this.

She couldn't fall asleep until 3 am in the morning. Once she was sure she would spend the night awake she dozed off until early morning.

Isaiah was worse than before, fever climbing as he sweated through his clothes.

Seline packed him with fever reducers and his heart meds. Fevers were risky for his condition, she hated he could get them like this from stress.

It's been a while since it happened and never so obviously caused by one singular event.

She also hated she couldn't make herself talk to him about it. Anything she wanted to say didn't feel senstive or appropriate enough. She didn't want to show him how much she could switch off her reaction to not hurt him more.

It was its own kind of punishment—being so good with words, wanting to be a professor, for God's sake...and yet not having the right thing to say.

So what? They would just move on. People made their decisions and any of them could take them away from you. You could get separated by no fault or intent of anyone involved. But the closeness would still be lost.

If anything, Seline would be angry and offended with Matthew. If she let herself feel anything, which she didn't.

So they stayed in silence.

...

"You really didn't have to, Dylan, we have food-"

"Shut it," her brother said, packing out a grocery bag in her and Isaiah's kitchen to make spaghetti and soup.

"I'm not hungry," she said.

He gave her a meaningful side-eye. "You and not hungry? Who are you and what did you do to my sister?"

It was supposed to be funny, she knew. She attempted a half-smile of acknowledgement of that fact.

Dylan frowned in concern instead. "I'm going to make warm homecooked food and you can rest assured you can eat whenever you get hungry, okay? I also bought you 12 cartons of milk."

Dylan knew about her obsession with stucked food. It was usually her first concern when home or when travelling. She couldn't sleep knowing they had nothing in the house to eat.

She stopped worrying about this a lot when Isaiah took over the kitchen, usually having cooked something tasty. He even took care of most of their breakfasts.

When Seline lived alone, that one half-year when she moved out and before Dylan was accused and diagnosed, she lived off instant ramens and protein shakes.

"I bet Isaiah will be hungry too," Dylan added, starting to clean the vegetables for the soup.

Seline looked towards Isaiah's room as if she could see through the wall. "Probably not. Too sick to stomach anything right now."

"He'll get there," Dylan assured her. He had his back turned to her as he peeled and chopped.

"How are you handling this?"

She shrugged, sitting down at the table. "It's Matthew's decision, what am I to do? He obviously didn't need us to make it."

"I'm not asking if he should or shouldn't have left," Dylan pointed out gently. "I'm asking how you feel about it."

She scoffed, crossing her arms on her chest. "I'm just worried about Isaiah, he will blame himself for not noticing..."

Dylan gave an exaggerated sight, letting the water to boil in the pot and turning to her. "How are you?"

"How I feel is completely irrelevant to the situation," she said, tone getting defensive.

Dylan watched her with such focus she dropped her gaze. "Whatever the situation, fair or small or outside anyone's control, you are allowed to have your own reaction."

"I don't need it."

Dylan stepped closer, drying his hands on a fresh dish towel, ignoring her glare at it. "C'mere."

"What?"

With an eyeroll, Dylan offered her a hand. When she took it in surprise, he hoisted her up and hugged her.

"What's this about?" Her tone was biting, but her body couldn't resist giving in to the hug.

It was so rare to get hugs from Dylan. Since he got all cool at 16 he refused to be hugged whenever she wanted, even if she sometimes managed to trap him in short ones.

He said he would decide when he could be hugged. She refused to ask, she had hugged him throughout his childhood. There were other people he wanted to hug that took precedence over her.

Not to wonder with a teenage boy. His peers and his friends were oxygen in his blood, where his parents and sister were just little footnotes to the child he was before.

So they didn't hug that often. Not if there wasn't something serious.

"I'm not sad," she muffled against his shoulder.

He squeezed her tighter.

"I am not," she said, voice breaking a little as she buried her face against his chest—when did it get so broad?

"Right." Both of Dylan's arms wrapped around her back, holding her quietly as she cried.

...

Isaiah didn't think it could be more embarrassing than Rip finding him in bed with a fever and hovering.

It felt entirely wrong for the kid to see him in pajamas and under covers. The urge to get up and dress was immediate.

Even as his muscles contracted in effort, he could feel them too shaky and weak to actually do it.

But he was wrong it couldn't get worse.

His stomach twisted. He was nauseous from the fever for a while but the extra presence, the witness to his state made him roll on the bed towards the bucket Seline strategically put next to his bed and heaved over it.

Rip crouched down next to the bed and brought the bucket closer to Isaiah's mouth.

Isaiah convulsed over it, stomach hurting and squeezing until he brought up a splash of tea and a few mouthfuls of water.

A burp rolled out, smelling of stomach bile.

Rip said nothing, patting him on the back lightly until the heaving stopped.

Isaiah rolled away, shivering with cold and exhaustion. His chest hurt so he propped himself up on more pillows and pulled the covers closer.

Rip moved very quietly. He went to clean up the bucket, then returned to hover at Isaiah's beside again.

Isaish didn't look at him, starting up at the ceiling instead. Was this what Matthew saw everyday when he slept here? Did he look? Did he ever find anything to look at?

"Can I do anything, sir?"

Isaiah cleared his throat. "You don't have to call me that when we are alone."

Rip stood unmovingly. "Anything at all I can do for you, sir?"

Isaiah huffed, rolling to his side, back turned to Rip. He wanted to send him away but couldn't quite make himself.

"Did he...tell you anything? Did you have any idea?"

There was rustling as Rip took the offending piece of paper with Matt's handwriting and studied it silently. "No, sir. He didn't say or do anything that would suggest his intentions."

Isaiah exhaled. Okay. Maybe he didn't notice because there was nothing to notice. Maybe Matt came up with the plan shortly after they left for the trip.

"I just don't understand," Isaiah muttered, curling into himself. "If he wanted to make such big moves, he should have come to me. We could have done it together without him leaving."

"He was worried your involvement would cause the packs to react. He is keeping it small this way." The almost didn't dip when Rip perched himself on the edge.

"He still should have told me."

"Maybe he wanted to do it on his own, sir."

"Why?" What had Isaiah done wrong? Did he make Matt feel this way? Like he couldn't talk to him? Like he could leave and nobody would mind?

"Did I-" Isaiah gulped against the saliva pooling in his mouth. His stomach was tight as a fist, shrinking into itself with each breath. "Did I cause this? Did I push him away? Did he feel...unneeded?"

Rip sat on cross-legged on the bed now, inching just a bit closer.

"You did push him away, sir."

Isaiah gagged against the pillow, pressing a hand against his mouth.

"But if you didn't, then he wouldn't have been able to help the people who needed him more."

Isaiah muffled the next gag against his hand, turning back a little to peer at Rip over his shoulder.

"If anyone from my family..." Rip stopped, took a deep breath and continued: "If my siblings were still alive, even one of them...I wouldn't have been able to help."

"Rip-"

"Before," Rip cut in, ducking his chin. "I wouldn't have been able to help as a stray. As a burden. But with what you have taught me? I could have...I could have made a difference. And I would have done it if it brought something positive into their lives."

Isaiah was quiet, his guilty spiral momentarily broken by the confession. He slowly turned to lie on his back. A quiet little burp slipped between his fingers, but the immediate urge to gag stopped.

Rip played with a loose string on his jeans, hands relaxed in his lap. Carefully and deliberately relaxed. "I don't think he was angry with you, sir. You have given him a gift. He is using it."

Isaiah nodded, wrapping his arms around himself. His chest still ached, but his stomach slowly unclenched. The grief and the sense of loss were still there, but the idea of a purpose, of a goal to fulfill for Matt made it a little easier to breathe.

"You won't...won't leave, right?" Later, he would blame the fever. The fever frying his mind and his nerves and his chest still pained and tense. Because of course Rip could leave whenever he wanted. Isaiah would never stop him. Same as he wouldn't stop Matt.

Rip wiggled a little closer on the bed, looking to the side. His cheeks reddened a bit. "I'm not leaving, sir."

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

to the anon who sent in a request today, THANK YOU! Very excited to have an official fic request. Just forewarning, it will take some time, partly because it's different than what I've written before, and partly because I'm not writing much right now because *life*, but I do plan on fulfilling it :)

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

I got a question about what animals I think my characters would be, courtesy of @lisupandowntown. Turns out I had two lists of answers to this question lol

Not totally set on these, but:

Colin: Golden retriever, or squirrel monkey

Rowyn: orca, or bear maybe, not sure about this one

Jamie: cat

Keegan: skunk

Alix: dolphin

Jayden: blue jay, or opossum

Charlie: elephant, or ladybug

Julie: crocodile

Max: rabbit

Léo: hedgehog

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

Hey! I just stumbled upon your blog and I was going through ur OCs to get to know them ofc (before I begin reading) and Jamie and I have the same birthday - March 18. I just thought that was cool because I actually don’t know a lot of people with that birthday. Just wanted to say hi (I may become a frequent reader lol)

- 🪲 anon

Hi 🪲! You are officially my first emoji anon :) I've had a lot of fun so far, bringing these characters and stories to other people. Always happy to discuss/answer questions about my characters 😊 and requests/ideas are always welcome

That's cool that you and Jamie share a birthday :)

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

Okay, I've been curious for so long - how did you pick your blog name?

Hee hee this question brought me so much joy :)

I'm a lot like Rowyn in my love of animals, and I've always loved jaguars. I've been saying for years that if I was an animal, I'd be a jaguar (which is different than which animal I would choose to be, which I think I decided was a sailfish). I've always thought I have a lot in common with jaguars personality wise, and I think they're fabulous, so when I was deciding on the name for my little hidden corner, I liked the idea of using that.

Plus I'd been using the Jaguar as my anon emoji for a while, so it made sense to make it my mo-longer-anon identity too

And I have quite the affinity with the letter "j", considering 3/10 OCs start with J, and my name over here, so it kind of fit

I remember struggling to find a name that I liked, trying to find a way to incorporate the "sick" element since that's ultimately the circle I wanted to be part of, but I don't think there were ever other contenders: once I found this it felt right.

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

yessssss, I've missed this duo SO MUCH! They're so soft together, I love the "Dee", its such an adorable nickname

Jon catching the headache right away, and already making arrangements, making sure vin is waiting

I love that fic of Wendy with a migraine and Jon not noticing, it's one of my favourite rereads

Jon remembering that and learning from it, and now making sure it doesn't happen again is so precious

Wendy not even thinking she could call Vin, when he's able to be there now 😭

Jon being all smug he fixed the problem, but the "darling" 🥰

Vin wondering why she didn't call him, her apologizing and him not hearing, I'm a little worried about their communication... having not been in person that much, just wondering if their relationship is as deep as it could be or it got a little superficial in their time apart. Not that it's a bad thing, but they are clearly on shakier ground than the other pairs, a little less sure of what the other is thinking.

Wendyyy, she feels so small in this fic, worried about being a bad girlfriend, the little nudges towards her ED: having had nothing but coffee and carrots oof

ASKING VIN TO STAY they're such sweethearts

Not sure if you are still taking Vince and Wendy dabble requests but I’ve always loved when a boyfriend is called up by a friend to come get ‘his girl’ because she is  sick and then after picking up their girlfriend, looking at her in the passenger seat (who is other passed out asleep, miserable/embarrassed, about to/ is throw up) and just thinking ‘dam that’s my girl I love’ or am similar

Not sure if it’s something that could be turned into a dabble but thank you anyway for reading 😄

Alright anon, so I might've messed up bc I started the fic on the wrong POV but I hope you like it anyways!

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

Come Get Your Girl

"Marshall, wait up!" Jonah caught up with her outside of the maternity wing. Wendy rubbed her face, not bothering to smile as she would have with anyone else but her best friend. Jon wouldn't mind if she was cranky.

"Yes?" Wen asked, continuing to walk side by side with him. She had only gone there to update the family of one of her neonatal patients, but was already heading back to the ER, "is it urgent?"

"How long have you had that headache?" Jonah held up the elevator door for her and Wendy's eyebrows jumped up. She thought she was being so inconspicuous, not wincing in front of people, only taking her Tylenol out of Jonah's sight...

Truth was, Wendy had a killer headache since morning. It sucked severely as she woke up with Vince kissing her awake, wanting nothing more to bask in his undivided attention, only for the throbbing to start before she even managed to have breakfast.

Through the day the pain had changed from a dull throbbing, into a stabbing sensation behind her eyes. She had lied down in the doctor's headquarters during break — in hindsight, that was probably what had given her away — but the pain was relentless. She felt nauseous and a little out of it, however since there were no surgeries scheduled, Wendy couldn't bring herself to cave and go home. Besides, she only had two more hours on her shift...

"It's not that bad," Wen lied and Jonah rolled his eyes. Instead of pressing the button for the ER floor, Jon hit the Garage 1, shoving her hand away as she tried to press the correct one.

"You're heading home, Dee."

"Don't be ridiculous, I'm working," Wendy hissed, forcing up a smile as the elevator stopped to let more people in. Jonah seemed very pleased with himself. Her stomach rolled, the pain making her face feel tingly.

"Not anymore, you're not," Jonah whispered back, "Claire is gonna cover for you. Go home before it turns into a full blown migraine."

Vaguely, Wendy wondered just how scared she had made him that one time he hadn't switched with her when she had a migraine, only to find her horribly sick later. Or how guilty.

"I'm not Claire's problem, she did a 24 hour shift two days ago..."

"Drop it," Jonah hissed, crossing his arms to his chest and waiting as the elevator trip continued.

Wendy didn't really have any desire to fight him. She wanted to go home, the nausea was climbing steadily and her neck was stiff, eye sight getting all hazy around light sources. This was a migraine on the making for sure.

Nevertheless, she wasn't looking forward to driving home. She didn't entertain the idea that Jon would drive her, he was on a 24 hour shift himself, all but loaded up with caffeine.

"My keys," Wendy mumbled, blinking several times as the elevator stopped at the ER floor, the first main one, and the sound flooded as more people got in.

"I got them," Jonah answered, holding out her purse — he had it the whole time? She truly hadn't spared Jon a look so far — "but you're not driving."

"You're not taking me home, that would get you in so much trou-"

"You have a boyfriend, you know?" Jonah rolled his eyes, just as the elevator stopped on the first floor of the garage and people immediately moved out. Wendy's mouth snapped shut, relief flooding her as she saw Vince leaning against her car.

She was so used to him being away and out of reach, it was a weird change to have him be there at the drop of a hat, whenever she needed him. Wendy's eyes stung and she braced against a concrete pillar, breathing through the pounding in her head, the nausea, the flood of emotion.

"Hey, honey," Vince's voice was incredibly soft, gentle fingers dusting over her cheeks as he gathered her hair back, away from her mouth in case she was gonna be sick, "you're not feeling well, uh?"

"I didn't know you- I didn't know Jon called you..." Wendy sniffled, pressing her forehead to the rough, cold texture of the column.

Vince let out a chuckle, "more like summoned me to collect my girl," he teased, planting a kiss on the top of her head, "take a deep breath, we're going home as soon as you feel like moving."

Jonah let out a happy noise, "well, missing accomplished, she's all yours," he seemed terribly pleased with himself. Wendy heard him patting Vince's back, then say in a much gentler voice, "feel better, darling."

"Thank you..." She mumbled, daring to raise her head in order to look at him. Jonah flashed her a smile, then jogged away and back to the elevators.

Wendy's shoulders dropped and only then she fully looked at Vince.

He was smiling at her, lopsided, a dimple deep in his cheek. Curls down and damp, after gym shower she assumed. He fished out his aviator sunglasses from the neck of his shirt, "put these on, hon," Vince planted them on her face, crouching down so they were eye to eye, "how's the pain?"

"A six out of ten," Wendy told him truthfully, "feel queasy..."

"Too queasy for the drive?" Vince wrapped an arm around her shoulders, guiding her to the car and taking her purse away so he could retrieve the keys. Vin always looked so comical in her sedan, pushing the driver's seat all the way back and still looking cramped in. Wendy collapsed on the passenger seat.

"Not too queasy... I don't know," she switched up her answer halfway through, as a little sickly burp came up. Migraine nausea was different from food poisoning or the stomach flu. Awful just the same, but with none of the undercurrent of shame she couldn't help when dealing with G.I issues.

"Lean back," Vince lowered her seat carefully, then went through the glovebox in search of a bag, "if you want we can just sit here for a minute..."

"No," Wendy sighed, curling up and opening a thankful smile as Vin passed her a plastic bag, "I wanna go home."

"Alright," her boyfriend leaned in, pressing a kiss to her clammy forehead, "tell me if I gotta pull over."

Wendy leaned in against his touch. It'd never cease to make her swoon how soft Vince was. The definition a gentle giant.

She drifted in and out of consciousness as he started to drive. The pain wasn't climbing up anymore, now that she was out of the noise and bright lights, but also wasn't receding. The car movement was making her nauseous, but not enough to throw up. Instead, Wendy gulped down the salty saliva pooling in her mouth, rubbing her knuckles against her temple.

"Almost home," Vince whispered and Wendy let out a sigh as she felt him brush her bangs away from her face, thumb stroking her cheek.

As soon as they parked in the garage of the building, Wendy was leaning out of her door, gagging fruitlessly. She didn't have much, or anything, to bring up. Not only she had been running on coffee all day, but she had put herself on a diet due to all the pressure leading up to the wedding and had eaten all but one handful of baby carrots during lunch.

Baby carrots that made her saliva an odd shade of orange as she drooled on the cement floor, hanging on the door for dear life.

"Aw, honey," Vince sighed, crouching in front of her, as if he was blind to the fact she was about to throw up or trying to, "that's okay, let it out..."

"Vin..." Wendy whined, planting a hand on his shoulder, both as support but to push him out of the line of fire. He seemed to know she wasn't going to throw up, because Vince wouldn't budge no matter how much she pushed his shoulder, solid as a tree trunk as he held back her hair and cooed softly.

Wendy forced up a nasty, watery burp, a splash of liquid hit the ground. Not thick enough she could even call it vomit, but more than just the drooling she had been doing for the past five minutes. The nausea lessened, but the sudden burp caused her head to swim and Wendy let out a groan as she collapsed, dizzily.

"Shh, I got you," Vince wrapped an arm around her shoulders, "I got you, c'mere..."

He pulled her up and Wendy's knees wobbled, but she grabbed on his jacket with all her force as she felt Vince move to carry her bridal style, "no..." Wendy pressed her forehead to his chest, "no carrying... Mak'me dizzy..."

"Okay, okay, sorry..." Vince wrapped an arm around her waist and then all but hoisted most of her weight off her feet, "better?"

"Uh-hu," Wendy pressed her head to his chest, letting out a deep breath as they entered the elevator and Vin promptly wrapped his arms around her, rubbing her back.

"Why didn't you call me to come get you before it got this bad?" Vince asked, kissing the top of her head and Wendy let out a groan.

"It'sssnot-" She muffled another nauseous burp on his shirt, "not that bad..."

"Sure," she couldn't see him, but knew he was rolling his eyes, "did you take any meds?"

"Tylenol..." Wendy jerked slightly as the elevator came to a stop, "I think I can sleep it off."

"After you take your meds," Vince guided her out of it, already with the keys on hand. He didn't speak again as he gently pushed her inside and steered her towards the bedroom and Wendy let out a sad sigh.

"I'm sorry I didn't call you..." In truth, she wasn't sure why she was apologizing. She had been handling things on her own all her life, it was no mystery that it'd take getting used to having Vince around all the time. Part of her felt a stab of guilt, like she was ruining things by simply not knowing how to be a better girlfriend.

Vince didn't seem to have heard her, as he went through the bedside table's drawer in search of her meds, foot thumping on the ground rhythmically. Wendy fell against the pillows, kicking out her shoes and burying her face on his pillow, the lavender after beard lotion he used was still clinging to the fabric.

"Honey," Vince whispered, rolling her around by the elbow. He had closed the curtains and the only light source in the room was the hallway light on, "meds, you gotta take 'em."

Wendy nodded, then let out a pained whimper as it caused a stab to echo through her head. Vince used the pillows to pull her sitting up, grabbing the pillowcase instead of her arms as he tilted it towards him, "here, one big gulp and I'll get out of your hair."

"No," Wendy's voice was all rough and she grimaced, clearing her throat, "can you stay...?" She took the meds and the glass of water Vin was holding out, a little worried her boyfriend might deny. Was he angry she hadn't called him...?

"Are you sure?" Vince pushed back the hair on her face, tucking it behind her ear and taking the glass with his free hand, "I don't wanna bother you while you sleep."

Wendy let out a snort, "I sleep like the dead, you could never... Just stay until I fall asleep?" Please?

Vin's dark brows met, in a frown, but then his whole face got wrinkly as he cracked a smile, "of course, honey," he leaned in to press a kiss on her forehead.

He pushed the door even more ajar, so only one thread of light entered the room and Wendy heard him roaming around. The noise of his shoes falling, rustling of him stripping something, hands on her shoulders, "c'mere, cuddle me."

She let out a pleased noise as her cheek met his tummy, suddenly realizing Vince had removed his shirt due to how warm the room was. Wendy muffled a yawn against his skin, throwing her leg over his hip and letting her eyes slip closed once again as his hand dropped to her hair, starting to pet it.

Wendy was fully drifting off as she heard Vince whisper, "I love you."

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

pulling a bunch of thoughts into these comments. First off, I love the road trip so much, it's way longer than I was expecting, and it's given way to such fun relationships

I love Keiran way more than I thought would, he's such an interesting character with different motivations and he has such a different outlook.

I think I missed commenting on a bunch of the hike ones... the development there was beautiful. Seeing Seline actually outline what she needed from him and take charge was beautiful, holding him accountable for some more things and pushing him to actually open up. That was such a necessary conversation and it might open up the possibilities for better communication between the two of them

Okay. This fic has so much. I'm loving the way their different personalities show in how they spend the vacation, Dylan running off to all the shops, Sel and Olive doing artsy things, Isaiah and Rip off doing whatever.

Kieran jealous of Hex being well Alessia... it shows just how deep that wolf conditioning goes, because as confident as he is that he could take a wolf, he still expects there to be a pull and a prioritization of wolf over human. Very interesting to see that moment of insecurity(?) from Keiran.

And Hex not being jealous or possessive. As kind of volatile as he usually is, and how soft he gets around Olive it's such a neat thing that he's just like "sure go off wherever". I get the public appearances, but he's the one who was monitoring the foreign wolves so closely and stressed by their presence, it's interesting that that stress doesn't translate to Olive. Maybe that's his version of compartmentalizing though, keeping his wolf life and his Olive life separate, maybe a bit too much.

Oh and that Keiran realizes he's thinking like Dominick... OOH I would love to see more of their relationship, Dom was such an interesting calculating strategic dude. But Keiran seeing them that way was interesting too, he really does seem to think like a wolf

And THEN, the actual confrontation was so visual. All the body language, the way Keiran can read the whole room, and knows exactly what everyone is thinking. He seriously is the closest a human could get to being a wolf. It's so neat! He's so outwardly threatening, but calculated, he knows everything he does has meaning.

but the way he immediately stepped in and made his position clear, still hoping Isaiah would come, but having a plan to take them down.

Isaiah coming in at the end, and yeah his shadow is so fucking cool. Kieran wanting to see it in its completion, honestly me too. He just has so much control and such a cold kind of power that just sent them running. beautiful.

AND Kieran is doing all of this while being in pain!

I'm so so curious about Dylan and Olive though. Dylan's shadow is just so supressed, did he not even realize there were wolves?! Even after all this time in a pack setting it hasn't made him more aware, or more wolf-y? You'd think hanging with Rip he'd start to pick up on more of those signals and things. Is he undergoing any wolf training, or is that only Rip? Better yet, does he want wolf training? Is it something Isaiah would want for him?

And Olive just having absolutely no understanding of wolf culture or the danger she could be in. Already being so heavily marked by Hex. Yeah, the whole "the only way you'd pick a human is if you have no other choice" mentality is so supremely WOLF is its devaluing of humans... very interesting, and makes Hex's attachment to Olive that much more sincere. Was Olive raised away from wolves then? Because they seem to exist pretty diversely, and humans seem to be pretty wary and knowledgeable of them, so why doesn't she know anything? Even when confronted with angry wolves, she didn't know she was in danger until Keiran made it clear...

If Hex was that anxious when Olive was sick, imagine finding out he missed the wolf confrontation that he wanted in the first place, and that they went after his girl...

Oh oh OH, and the way Isaiah is now almost treating Keiran with respect! Like they may not be friends, but he didn't jump into that situation, he let Keiran actually confront the wolves, and I wouldn't be surprised if he actually admired the fact that Keiran moved first. Giving up a little control, are we Isaiah? Love that he had eyes on them the whole time though, I was wondering how he could be missing the action, but of course he wasn't lol

Almost a fight

Have some foreign wolves circling too close with Kieran getting involved when he shouldn't, while still not quite recovered.

This goodbye trip was very much not how Kieran wanted to spend his last day in Italy.

But he couldn't blame Alessia for wanting to go with the group after she spent the better part of the second week nursing him. His girlfriend seemed to have come to like Seline a lot, cause she insisted on tagging along with Isaiah's group to Florence.

Kieran thought it was a stupid, useless idea, but he could also walk a bit better now, though every step still tugged at the fading bruises. Lying in bed all day without Alessia by his side was a lot less compelling.

The group was lively. Seline and Olive could apparently spend the day watching the street artists all over the cathedrals, with Alessia dragging them into leather shops on the way.

Dylan had like zillion things he wanted to try out or buy, cause if he didn't have a whole new outfit straight from Florence, it would be fashion crime of the year. No one could keep pace with him.

Hector tagged along with the girls, but ended up, to Kieran's surprise, more interested in the leather shops Alessia mapped out. Apparently leather jackets and bags were his thing. So much for incriminating material. Big Wolfson hair loves leather.

Kieran was pissed and he knew he shouldn't. So Alessia let the blond tall wolf follow her around and recommended him brands. Big deal. Kieran wasn't some jealous, insecure boyfriend who couldn't take a competition. He could absolutely take a wolf, shadow or not.

Well, most wolves. He would have to think it through a little with Hector, cause the guy was muscular as fuck, so obviously not underestimating his body workout just cause he had a large shadow.

Kieran decided not to make a scene or hover around. It could very easily happen if he didn't consciously fight the urge.

So when Olive run out of steam after her recent recovery from the flu and Dylan finally stopped for lunch, Kieran ended up with those two weirdos.

Really, shouldn't stupid Hector have stopped when Olive needed a break? Instead of running off with Kieran's girl in this crazy, overfull city?

It was just another guy. It didn't matter he was a wolf, Hector was just one guy and Kieran wasn't worried. Not of wolves. Except that all wolves were competition and the tiny insistent voice—that he didn't listen to, mind you—was telling him any wolf near his girl could remind her what a cooler, more exciting life she could have... if Kieran had been a wolf.

Cause Kieran was never gonna get a shadow — but Alessia could get a boyfriend who had one.

Which was ridiculous, cause Kieran was getting McDonald's with Hector's small, cute, round-faced girlfriend and Rip's sidekick. Not that it was relevant, but if anyone asked, Kieran had two of the most vulnerable people of the group under his supervision at the moment.

Christ, he was starting to think like Dominick.

He almost didn't notice the two wolves.

He shook his head, getting ice cream for himself in the booth next to Dylan's and Olive's, to be grumpy on his own.

He could use the rest. Sitting down felt better than standing, but the bench pressed too hard against his back. He missed the softness of cushions and the bed. The bruises hadn’t faded yet, pulling at his muscles at strange poses.

They could have just been some creeps. Leaning against the opposite wall and scanning the room with snickers and comments. Even wolves would have trouble recognizing each other by scent in such a crowded place where they served food.

But Kieran could tell from how they held their bodies. The excited tension with focus, the power tingling under their skin. The hunger in their eyes at the possible challenge.

Kieran consciously relaxed his shoulders. His back was turned to Olive and Dylan's seats. He didn't look like he belonged. The big wave of tourists passing through the restaurant was passing, dwindling in numbers. What was this about?

Where was Isaiah again? Disappeared somewhere with Rip in the morning and Kieran didn't see him since. He was trying to ignore the Executioner as much as he could, but now he was very aware of his absence.

Not like these wolves would know who Isaiah was on sight. His reputation or role wouldn't protect him here. But his presence, if loosened up a little, could be enough of a warning.

When both of the wolves moved towards Olive, exchanging grins, Kieran got up. A jolt of pain lit up his ribs as he stood—but he didn’t let it show.

First, he just put his tray away, as if nothing was amiss. Were the wolves reacting to Hector's scent on Olive? Dylan didn't reek of shadow, his presence and body language was very human. Kieran wouldn't be able to tell he was a wolf from the looks only and if his shadow didn't come up often, he could be believably supressed enough not to give off the vibes.

Hector's shadow was another deal entirely. That thing was there, shivering right under the surface, eager, dark, tempted. Kieran sensed the temptation even with his very human senses.

That would leave a mark on the girl Hector touched so much. A girl that was not a witch.

"Hey there, beautiful," one of the wolves said, his English accent all wrong. "Alone here?"

"Uhm...hello?" Dylan said, waving with his hamburger, but the other wolf leaned on the table to block him from view. Either they classed Dylan as human or with too weak a shadow presence to count as a threat.

"Can we offer you some company? What's your name, sweetheart?"

Kieran sighed, looking down at his phone. He didn't even have anyone's phone number. Oh well.

"If that's supposed to be a pick-up line, it's pathetic," Kieran said, circling the two intruders from Olive's side and stepping up beside her. Deliberately inside the wolf's personal space.

The wolf recoiled. He could do that to others, but obviously nobody could do it to him. It was a forceful move, circling on a victim, something small, fragile, and for the taking.

For a human, it might have been unpleasant. For a wolf, that was a surprisingly blatant challenge. Like throwing a glove to the ground. If he touched Olive, he would claim her as his for the taking.

"Leave, human," the second wolf argued. "It's not your business."

"She is human too," Kieran said, pointing behind him at Olive, hunched over at the table, eyes big and startled. Obviously not feeling as threatened as she should have, but feeling something was off.

"She's got a wolf scent on her," said the first wolf with long blond bangs covering his eyes. He grinned widely at his partner. "She likes wolves around."

The wolf scent, this noticeable meant marking. If the girl wasn't a witch, it usually meant the wolf marking her with his shadow and scent wasn't of high ranking, because only a low wolf would take a human girl for a partner.

And since it was so strong, it could mean the wolf was not careful. Even worse that the wolf wasn't with her—implying she was easy to get and discard.

These two wolves probably didn't understand the scent was strong despite Hector being careful, because his presence was just that powerful. That should have been a cue that Olive shouldn't be messed with.

A wolf should, by all means, be more possessive of a partner. And Hector seemed to have forgotten he was in foreign territory where his scent wouldn't be known.

For some reason, the Wolfson heir didn't cling to Olive the way it would be natural in public, which was the strangest thing to Kieran. As if they weren't used to the behavior in the open.

"You are not very smart, are you," Kieran muttered.

"You can take the pup and leave," the other, dark-haired wolf closer to Dylan said, "the girl stays with us. Nobody gets hurt."

"You got only this chance," the blond wolf agreed. "Take it while we are being nice."

Wow. This was mind-blowingly stupid. It got Kieran's heart racing though. He moved carefully, disguising the stiffness in his posture. The ache along his right side tugged at him like a weight.

He relaxed his shoulders, sitting down on the edge of the table with a lopsided grin. Olive moved farther away, closer to the window, now looking more spooked.

Dylan's eyes were narrowed and he was all tensed up, but Kieran couldn't feel a shiver of shadow movement from him. That kid was too far gone. Should let his shadow up a bit more often.

Their friendly enemy wolves? Their shadows were close to the surface. Kieran pointedly didn't look at their feet, but he could feel their shadows stirring, like soup just before boiling.

"Look, mate. I think the two of you should back off. While I'm still asking nicely." Kieran put his hands into his pockets. It hurt to square his shoulders, but he did it anyway. Sitting down would instinctively de-escalate fighting instincts, but his protesting while smiling and hiding his hands was a form of challenge.

The blond wolf growled. Kieran's 'I'm not taking you seriously' message was heard loud and clear.

"Ridiculous human," the dark-haired wolf scoffed. "You want to die?"

Kieran's pulse raised, but his smile widened just the same. "Verbal threats, now? I'm so so scared."

The ironic tone and relaxed stance was off-putting and confusing for the wolves. Kieran felt the effect of the stirring shadows, like a feeling of doom rising in the room. Like cold climbing up your spine. The reception of danger, the most basic fear wolves could prompt in a human, was not a weak thing.

Except that Kieran lived off the feeling of fire licking at his feet.

One could get far with just the right body language and positioning with wolves. Even just how you stood and in front of whom was a statement. Each look, every little nod, tipped head, or straightened back was a message, a power struggle, a war of tag. A fight started way before the first hit.

Yeah, definitely stupid.

But you had to believe you could do it. And Kieran did honestly think so. He could trip the blonde up and then go for the throat with the next one. Surprise would work the best, but they also wouldn't expect his speed.

Their shadows were eager, but their arms weren't toned—Kieran could tell they didn't train. The most classic mistake was not to work out as a wolf, thinking your shadow could save you from everything.

The blond wolf showed his teeth. The second one growled.

The adrenaline was so strong now he almost didn't feel his ribs screaming in protest at being tense and upright for so long.

"Well? Gonna stand there all day or actually gonna do something fun? I'm dying of boredom here." Kieran raised his eyebrows mockingly, getting comfortable on the table.

His hands were still in his pockets, but pulled slightly upward. He could get them out and launch himself at them, he was leaning in the right angle.

But he could literally see the red fog taking over the blond wolf. Soon, he wouldn't be able to control his reaction. Mad opponents driven by instincts to fight were the easiest to defeat.

The entrance door opened and then slammed behind with a force as if caught by a strong wind.

Both wolves and Dylan snapped their attention towards it as if drawn by the sound. Kieran followed the movement a beat later.

Isaiah stood inside now.

He looked unhurried, hands still in his coat pockets, a step behind the threshold like he hadn’t made up his mind yet whether he’d really come in. The faint breeze stirred the edges of his coat, and the light behind him blurred his face in silhouette.

For a moment, nothing changed. Just a guy entering a restaurant. No wolf would notice. No human would care.

Then the change came.

His shadow didn't flare up. Of course, Isaiah wouldn't be as rude as to pull it out openly in public with so many humans around. So it wasn’t an outburst. It was a quiet, deliberate loosening of breath — and with it, the shudder that rolled through the room, like a pressure drop before a storm.

The wolves felt it first. The blond one flinched. The dark-haired one took half a step back, not even realizing it.

Kieran couldn't see it. He didn’t feel it the same way the wolves did, but he saw it — the way their eyes widened, the way the red fog in the blond wolf’s face broke apart like fire doused with cold water.

Isaiah began to walk.

No expression on his face. No urgency in his step. He walked like he had all the time in the world — like gravity moved aside for him. The kind of walk that only someone dangerous could afford.

His shadow came with him. No, not came—pressed outward like an invisible force. The air itself didn’t want to be in his way.

The wolves didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Isaiah passed Dylan’s table without looking at them, his eyes locked onto Kieran.

Kieran hadn’t moved either. His ribs were screaming now, with the effort of staying upright, but something in Isaiah’s presence pulled the weight off his body—like someone had just picked up the atmosphere for him.

Isaiah stopped right beside him. He didn’t look at the wolves.

He looked at Kieran. Cool, unreadable. "You good?"

Kieran blinked once. "Peachy."

A pause.

Then Isaiah turned his head. Slowly.

He looked at the two wolves like someone reading a road sign. Not a threat. Not a warning. Just recognition. His shadow didn’t rise. It just was—immense, quiet, ancient. Like they were in the presence of something that didn’t need to prove itself anymore.

"That's not your scent on her-" the blond one started, but his voice cracked halfway through.

Isaiah didn’t speak. He tilted his head slightly—one millimeter to the side—and it felt like a verdict. His green eyes sparkled dangerously.

The dark-haired wolf swallowed hard.

Both wolves turned without another word and walked out. Not ran. But only because running would have looked worse.

When the door closed again behind them, the tension didn’t snap. It faded. Dissolved, like fog burning off in sunlight. If this was what he could do just by teasing his shadow out, how cool must it be when rolled out? Kieran got the sudden urge to see Isaiah's shadow whole one day.

Isaiah exhaled once, slowly. The shadow presence receded, but not with the same speed, letting its echo linger behind. Then he looked at Kieran again.

"You shouldn’t have let them circle you."

Kieran smirked, even though it hurt, finally letting his shoulder slump forward. "I wasn’t planning to offer tea."

Isaiah’s eyes flicked down, catching the way Kieran held himself, stiff. He didn’t say anything, but the look was enough.

Kieran sighed, muttering, "Yeah, yeah. Shut up." He slid down from the table to sit down properly, sighing in relief before adding: "What took you so long?"

Isaiah's reply was a dry murmur, barely audible. "Didn’t know you’d move first."

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

combining comments for this series. Annie is such a challenging personality, I would struggle with that, and when both of them are already on edge that's such a recipe for disaster lol

They both saw the lease in such a different way, without actually communicating! Lo pulled an Isaiah and made the decision for him, like "oh I'm sure you're not ready yet, we'll talk about this is 6 months" sacrificing her own want for them to live together and not letting him be part of that. So yes, I think she absolutely should have brought it up, especially if Gabe could find out that easily, it could have at least been a conversation!

Gabe still being on the "I did something wrong" train, like noooooo you're a sweetheart 😭 Someone seriously needs to tell him he's a good boyfriend. He doesn't seem to understand that, even though it's so clear. The whole time just being worried about her

Him telling off Annie! I was cheering, she needed to be called out. But then him stressing that Annie told Logan and that she wouldn't take his side. Meanwhile she's in the bathroom crying because of how harshly he said no

The support of all their friends, the Adam and Gabe relationship; I'm starting to see how they could have been closer/more similar. I know Adam is Noa's twin, but damn does Gave give younger sibling energy, it's so funny to me that he's the oldest

No one clocking the residual effects of the hypothermia though? Between Jer and Logan someone should have seen the lingering shivers tiredness susceptibility to alcohol, but I guess there were other things happening

Them both just falling apart, same time, same way. Such fun contrast to see them relying on different people, and both worried Logan won't stay at Gabe's.

Them being told "you'll figure it out" and getting to bed together 🥰

And then the hangovery nausea and puking was so good. So problematic when they're trying to finally have that conversation, but it made it so much more unfiltered and sincere. Very well written in the chaos

I love the "we're not rory and noa", and the "6 months is nothing" and then Logan offering to clean, and ending with "roomie" was such a good way to wrap it up

Was no one with them? Everyone came to drop them off, then left? It was good for them to have that conversation, just curious that no one was checking up on them...

But I'm glad they finally communicated and sorted that out, and to see the support from all their friends is so nice

Hungover Confessions

“Yeah, call an Uber; we’ll never make it home this way.” 

Gabe huffed in the direction of the voice.  “Tole you.”  Now that he’d puked he felt somewhat less queasy, but the dizziness hadn’t gotten much better.  And even worse were his legs, which felt like they were full of sand and didn’t want to propel him forward more than one shuffling step at a time.  After trying and failing to get him to walk faster, Rory and Adam had given up on their plan to have Gabe walk home and had plunked him on a bench down the street from the bar while they conferred.

This was not the bench closest to the front door. That one had a clear splatter of vomit all over the ground in front of it, and it was only after Rory had dragged him past that Gabe realized it was probably where Logan had gotten sick.  

“She okay?” he croaked weakly. Thinking about his girlfriend throwing up without him there made his own stomach clench with fresh nausea. He swallowed it down and took a careful sip of the water Rory handed him.  “Is she . . .h - at my apartment?” Gabe bit back the word home even though he’d probably used it with Logan dozens of times before. 

“Not yet; at least, Noa hasn’t . . . oh wait.”  Rory looked down at his phone.  “They’re almost home, yeah.  And Logan didn’t puke in the Uber, so that’s a bonus.”  Their own Uber pulled up and Adam went to talk to the driver, handing him a wad of cash.  “How about you try the same - Adam’s paying off the driver to let you in the car but I’d rather not get vomited on.”

“I’m fine,” grumped Gabe.  It was only five blocks to his building; he certainly could keep himself together for five blocks. In the car he leaned against Rory, trying to see if Noa had sent any more texts.  Or maybe just because he was dizzy. Whatever: Rory was oddly comfortable. The Uber started moving and Gabe swallowed down against the sudden lurch of his belly.  He would not puke until he was home.

“Whatever’s going on, it’s okay,” Rory promised quietly in his ear. “You’ll figure it out; you’ve gotten a lot better at this.”

Gabe really wanted to believe him, but the night’s events had convinced he’d fucked up badly.  He also felt too drunk to ask Rory what he knew.  “‘Kay,” he gulped instead, muffing a string of tiny, beer flavored burps against his friend’s shoulder.  To his credit, Rory didn’t push him away, even when one of the burps turned dangerously wet.  Gabe squeezed his eyes shut over the wave of nausea, afraid he might not make it the five blocks after all.  

The Uber finally jerked to a stop.  Gabe stayed frozen; eyes still closed and waiting to feel Rory move so he could throw himself out of the car after him to puke on the sidewalk.  He was tasting salt in his mouth again and desperate to get it out.

Adam’s voice interrupted his misery.  “Found your girlfriend, Gabie.  Looking about as good as you right now.”

Nausea be damned, Gabe’s eyes flew open. Logan was sitting on the low wall that bordered the path up to his building - slumped forward, head in her hands, drooling onto the sidewalk.  Noa and Jeremiah sat on either side of her like sentinels and Logan looked small and lost between them. Jeremiah was rubbing her back and Noa started redoing the ponytail holding her hair back from her face, but she didn’t seem aware of either of them. Immediate thoughts of vomiting forgotten, Gabe let Rory haul him out of the car. 

“L-Lo . . .” he croaked. In front of him, Logan retched and heaved, and Jeremiah grabbed her by the shoulders to keep her from pitching forward.  Gabe’s own stomach turned over.

“If you’re going to throw up, do it here.”  Rory grabbed Gabe to stop him from stumbling over the curb.  “Not all over your girlfriend.”  

Logan spit up a tiny mouthful of vomit and then looked up.  Her makeup was running down her face and Gabe couldn’t tell if she’d been crying or if it was just from the effort of getting sick.  When she saw him she made a sound of distress. “Oh.  Gabe.”  She hiccupped and spit more liquid out at her feet.  Noa wrapped her arm around Logan’s shoulder and pulled her against her side.  

“You’re okay,” she soothed. “Gabe’s here now and we’ll take you both upstairs and put you to bed,” okay?”  

“Yeah, upstairs,”  Gabe answered quickly, before Logan could suggest that someone take her back to her own apartment instead.  Logan gave him a small, queasy smile.  

“I’m prob’ly going to puke again,” she warned.  Gabe shrugged.  

“Me too; I’ve got a bucket.” That earned him another smile, and he pulled out of Rory’s hold to stumble over to his girlfriend.  “C’mon, d’you think you can walk?”

“Not alone she can’t, and neither can you,” Jeremiah scoffed.  “You don’t seem to be in immediate danger of alcohol poisoning but let’s not get matching concussions.”  He cupped Logan’s cheeks in his hands, assessing her.  “Do you think you’re ready to face the elevator, sweetheart?” 

Logan gave a hesitant nod and let Jeremiah help her slowly to her feet, where she swayed unsteadily. “I’m . . . I’m okay,” she said thickly, when Noa jumped up to grab her other arm.  “Jus’ wanna lie down.”

Gabe did too, but he had another order of business first.  “Need t’ puke,” he mumbled in what he thought was Rory’s direction.  “May want to . . . uurp . . . stand back.”  Throwing up in front of his building was not ideal, but that seemed to be what his body needed at the moment.  A second later the nausea spiked and his face went prickly.  He must have made some sort of sound because a hand suddenly jerked him to the side and pushed him forward over the grass. 

“Go ahead, get it up.”  It was Adam and not Rory at Gabe’s side.  But even though he burped and gagged and felt like his stomach was turning itself inside out, he didn’t bring anything up.  When he was just gasping for air, Adam thumped him firmly on the back and Gabe finally sucked in a breath.

“Okay, this isn’t happening right now. Can we take you inside?  Cause Logan looks like she’s about to pass out.”

Hearing that, Gabe straightened up and let Adam and Rory walk him into his building.  Logan was there in the elevator with him, but alcohol-fueled exhaustion was washing over him like a blanket and anything he meant to say to her got swallowed up in the nausea swirling in his gut.  He just wanted to sleep.

And he did, because the next time Gabe was aware of anything, he was lying in bed in only a t-shirt and his boxer-briefs, and his girlfriend was groaning miserably beside him.  His blinds were open and anemic early morning sunlight was streaming into the room. Gabe couldn’t look though. Blindly, he reached out until his hand connected with Logan’s body - her shoulder maybe.  “Hey,” he rasped.  Just the effort of speaking made him queasy.  He patted again. “You okay?”  He clearly wasn’t, but the thought of trying to get himself up and to the bathroom to hang over the toilet was daunting.  Maybe Logan could get him a bucket. 

The only answer was her increasingly frantic panting.  There was a hiccup, then a tiny no, and she rolled suddenly away from him.  Before Gabe could even clock what was happening, Logan retched so hard the bed shook and there was the sound of liquid hitting the wood floor.  

“Oh fuck. Lo . . . can you . . . uuLp.”  Gabe bit back his own gag.  “Can you make it to the bathroom baby?” Gabe cracked open one eye to see Logan hanging halfway off the bed.  Her body jerked with another heave and Gabe grabbed her ankle to try to pull her back towards him.  “Or . . . just puke there I guess.”  Logan burped and whimpered and threw up some more, and Gabe had to let go of her and roll away to push his face into his pillow.  The sound and smell was too much, and he panted and gulped himself, straining to keep his own stomach in place.  Finally he forced up a burp, drooling onto his pillow. The wave of nausea eased a little bit.  

Gabe had no idea if Logan was still throwing up.  He cautiously raised his head out of his pillow, breathing through his mouth, and squinted in the direction of his girlfriend. She was curled up on the edge of the bed in a tiny ball, breathing heavily but not retching anymore.  There was another sound too, and after a second Gabe realized she was crying.  

“Shit,” he mumbled, shuffling across the mattress until his body made contact with Logan’s again.  “Don’t . . . don’t cry.”  His stomach clenched, with guilt as much as the hangover. “I’m so sorry, I -” he had to stop and burp into his fist.  “--I know I just keep saying that every time I fuck up but I . . . I . . . ugh, hold on.”  Gabe’s stomach heaved and he pushed himself into a sitting position to try to swallow back the liquid that kept climbing up his throat.  His stomach rolled.  “I didn’t mean to, but Annie was . . Fuck,” he gasped, the word coming out tinny and strained.  The nausea surged again. He had to get out of bed. But he also had to help Logan, who’d rolled over to face his direction when Gabe started talking. Her expression was strained as she held back a gag.  “Can you make it to the bathroom?” he begged her. “Please?”

Logan gingerly shook her head, which was shoved up against his thigh.  “Not . . . not yet,” she retched.  “I’m so nauseous.”  She ground the heels of her palms into her eyes and began breathing through her mouth.  

So Gabe waited too, trying to match his breathing to Logan’s and willing himself not to puke all over his lap.  He thought they were both succeeding until Logan made a small, sick sound and lurched away from him to hang over the bed again.

“Noooo,” he groaned over the sound of his girlfriend losing more of her stomach contents. There was a big beach towel spread on top of the blanket, put there, no doubt, by his sister last night.  Moving slowly, he scooted over to Logan, squeezing his eyes shut to keep the room from tilting.  “Here,” he muttered, shoving the towel in her direction when the sound of heaving stopped and she was only spitting.  “For the floor.” 

Logan sniffled and took the towel out of his hand.  Gabe leaned back against his pillow and hoped she was covering up the mess but he was too queasy to care that much.  A second later Logan slumped against his side.  “What about Annie?” she mumbled.  

“Huh?” Gabe didn’t know what she was asking. Logan was putting pressure on Gabe’s belly and it felt horrible.  He didn’t want to push her away and maybe make her upset but he also didn’t want to throw up all over her hair.  “You gotta move,” he gasped, jaw heavy.  “Gonna puke.”  Without waiting for an answer Gabe shoved her off his side so he could roll off the other side of the bed.  His bathroom was only ten steps away but he knew as soon as he was upright that he wasn’t going to make it.  Instead, he dove for his garbage can, crashing to his knees just in time to burp up a gush of bitter liquid. It hit the plastic with a splatter, some of it splashing up to hit him in the face while he threw up again, and again.  His stomach cramped and he folded in on himself, wrapped around the bin and wishing for death.  

“I’m going to the bathroom.”  Logan had managed to get off the bed too and now was hovering over him, swaying.  She touched his shoulder. “I’m probably throw up again soon but I need to rinse the taste out of my mouth first.”  

Gabe spit and finally lifted his head up.  “I’ll . . . come with you,” he groaned. “I’ll puke in the sink if you need the toilet.”

Logan let out a small chuckle.  “How romantic.”  She tugged at his shoulder.  “C’mon then.”

Easier said than done because Gabe was so dizzy that standing up again made him retch and he had to fall back down over the bucket to heave some more. But finally, slowly, the two of them shuffled to the bathroom.  Gabe let Logan sit in front of the toilet while he leaned against the side of the shower, legs splayed out in front of him and trying to get himself under control. He felt both wrung out and full, nausea swirling in his belly and his head pounding.  He’d rather be in bed with the trashcan close by but the thought of going back and facing whatever Logan had thrown up on the floor made him gag.  And the trash can needed to be cleaned out too, dammit.

Logan rested her head on the side of the toilet. Her face was so pale it almost looked translucent but at least she’d stopped retching for the moment.  “What did you mean about Annie?” she asked again.  Her voice sounded completely wrecked.  “Because she was bugging the hell out of me last night.”  She twisted her head to peer at Gabe.  “I just wanted her to shut up already.”

“You didn’t talk to her after you went to the bathroom?” Gabe’s nausea was starting to climb again.  He leaned forward and forced up a couple of thick burps.  “I assumed you did.”  

Logan shook her head.  “I didn’t see her again, which was fine with me.  I figured she left to go find someone to flirt with.” 

“No.”  Gabe eyed the toilet, wondering if Logan was going to need it soon.  “No.  She left because of me.”  Nauseous as he was, Gabe also needed to confess, if only to ease the ache of guilt that was making his stomach feel even worse.  “I told her it was . . . no wonder she couldn’t keep a relationship,” he admitted, gulping down the feeling he needed to gag.  “I was annoyed that she wouldn’t stay out of our business.  I’m . . . uURP! . . . sorry.”  Gabe wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.  “Can I have the toilet?” he gasped.

Logan quickly moved out of the way.  “Get it up,” she urged as soon as Gabe positioned himself over the bowl and began drooling. She gagged into her hand.  “I’m starting to feel sick again.”  

“Sorry.  Trying,” Gabe mumbled, rubbing at his chest.  “Stuck.”  After another few seconds of heavy breathing he sat back on his heels.  “Not yet.  Do you need it?”

“In a minute,” Logan answered.  She was staring at him as if trying to figure something out.  “So, you didn’t like it when Annie asked you about . . .?” Her voice trailed off.

And there it was. Gabe could have lied.  He could have said he just didn’t like Annie asking a million questions and pretending she knew Logan better than he did. Sounded like a jealous boyfriend. He could have deflected and blamed his killer hangover. But Logan still had tears on her cheeks and Gabe felt so sick, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep until he said something. 

“I didn’t like it when Annie bugged you about us living together.”  His stomach lurched and he leaned forward to spit up a mouthful of bitter saliva.  “It wasn’t fair.”  Exhausted, Gabe rested his head on the side of the toilet. It was warm from when Logan had been there and he closed his eyes, thinking he might just stay there for a couple of hours.

“She wasn’t bugging me.”  Logan scooted closer and Gabe heard her gulp down.  “She was asking you.”  Logan kicked his foot.  “You sounded so . . . upset.  When you said . . . hmmm . . . you said we weren’t going to live together.”  She shoved Gabe’s shoulder so hard his head slipped off the toilet seat.  Before he could protest, Logan climbed practically on top of him to get herself over the bowl.  Gabe felt as much as heard and saw her heave. 

He had to close his eyes, but he held her while she retched, thoughts swirling as much as he stomach.  When she finally finished this round and slumped against him, he was ready.

“It’s cause I saw the lease,” he admitted.  “Your lease.  I know you . . . you don’t want to live with me.”  In his lap, Logan went very still.  “And that’s okay. Really.”  Gabe was speaking past the lump in his throat and trying to sound sincere.  “I . . . I get it.  I think.  I just . . .”

“Gabe . . .” Logan began softly.  “I didn’t . . . “ 

“No,” he interrupted harshly.  “Don’t say it.  You don’t have to say anything.  It’s okay.  I just didn’t like Annie pressuring you.  And I’m sorry it made you so upset.” Words exhausted, Gabe dropped his head onto Logan’s shoulder.  He still felt horrible, and really, really wanted to climb back in bed, but at least Logan knew the truth now.  She twisted in his lap.

“Do you need to throw up again?” she asked.  When he shook his head, she stood up slowly and braced herself over the sink to rinse out her mouth.  Gabe stayed on the floor, not trusting himself to be upright yet.

“Here.”  Logan handed him a cup of water. “Rinse your mouth at least.”  She lowered herself back to the floor while Gabe swished and then spit out the water.  Swallowing was definitely not a good idea yet.  

“Thanks,” he mumbled.  “I can’t remember the last time I was so hungover.”  

Logan shrugged in acknowledgement but clearly had something else on her mind.  “Before you saw the lease, had you been thinking about it?  Us living together, I mean.”  She gazed at him openly. Gabe squirmed for a minute, but he was too used to Logan by now to think she was mad, or setting him up. She just wanted to know.

“It hadn’t occurred to me,” he said honestly. “But not because . . . ugh.”  A new wave of nausea washed over him and he dropped his forehead back to the toilet seat.  This was so not the way he wanted to have this conversation, when his head felt stuffed with cotton and he was almost too sick to string words together.  But he didn’t seem to have much choice.  

Logan rubbed his back.  “But not because what?”

Gabe paused, then burped, bringing up stomach acid that dribbled into the soiled water.  “But not because I don’t want to, ever,” he explained.  “It just hadn’t quite occurred to me yet.”  He twisted around to look at his girlfriend and the words began falling out of him like rain.  “And then I saw that you’d signed the lease, so you obviously don’t want to live with me, and all of a sudden it’s been all I could think about. Obsessing a little, maybe.”  He gave a sheepish shrug. “Like when I was swimming.”  

“Oh.” Logan said.  Understanding bloomed on her face.  “Ohhhh.  And that’s why . . .”

“Yeah, probably,” Gabe agreed.  “Although I was really fucking cold anyway.  But distracted too, so I didn’t realize how bad it was getting.”  He shrugged.  “And then when Annie started asking you those questions - well she was asking me, I guess - but I thought it was going to upset you.  So I made it sound like I didn’t care.”  He burped a couple of times and flushed the toilet, flinching when the sound sent spikes of pain through his head.

“That . . . that actually makes a lot of sense.”  Logan sounded infinitely better than she had just a few minutes ago. She leaned forward and kissed his shoulder.  “Do you think you can keep down Tylenol?  Or your migraine meds?  You keep squinting.”

“In a minute, yeah.”  Gabe swallowed hard.  “So you aren’t mad at me?” He wasn’t quite sure how he’d gotten out of this mess, but maybe he had.  Something to puzzle out when he didn’t feel like puking.

“Of course not!  If anything it’s my fault.”  Logan suddenly sounded guilty.  “I didn’t tell you I was signing my lease because I didn’t want to pressure you to make a decision right now.  About us living together.”

“I know you need your space.” Gabe gave up trying to sit and curled up on the floor with his head in Logan’s lap.  “I thought that was why.  Cause we’re not Rory and Noa.”

Logan chuckled.  “And I wouldn’t want to be.  You’re right, I do sometimes need space, but so far you’ve been pretty good about giving it to me.  And it doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want to live with you.”  

Gabe felt like a weight was lifting off his chest.  Which was funny, because his entire body otherwise felt like it was filled with sand.  “Okay then,” he mumbled.  “Then let’s talk about it in a year.”  That felt really far away though.  “But I want you to sleep over a lot until then.  Or I will.”  He closed his eyes.  Maybe he could sleep for a year, right here on the floor.

“Six months.”  Logan squeezed his foot.  “I only signed for six months.”  

Gabe cracked his eyes open again.  “Good.  Six months is nothing”

“Nothing,” Logan agreed. “And if you give me six minutes, I think I can clean up the floor where I puked and we can get back in bed.”  

“Good, cause I want to sleep for six hours.”  Gabe pushed himself back into a sitting position.  “After I puke some more.’

Logan patted his back.  “You puke, I’ll clean, and we’ll both get in bed, ‘kay?”  

“Sounds . . . like a plan.”  Gabe braced himself over the bowl. “Roomie.”

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

:) @lisupandowntown thank you, I love your comments/questions... this was one of those fics that was just *fun* to write

Alix, Jayden, and Keegan moved in together as soon as they could. That was one of Keegan's things; you can be dating, but you can't forget me. And Alix and Keegan didn't really have financial means without family support, so the combined living situation was beneficial. Yes, they have separate rooms: Alix and Jayden have a larger room on one side, and Keegan has a room on the other side. That was never really an issue for them, Keegan got used to Alix and Jayden dating a long time ago.

The challenge was more-so when Jamie came into the picture: that's been a struggle for Jayden especially, to get to used to him being there, staying the night, being that present in Keegan's life, having another person around the apartment.

In my other flat, Rowyn and Colin share a room, and everyone else has their own. They were dating before living together, and Colin's the reason they all live together now. He basically arranged the whole thing, was like "I have no desire to live alone, or with roommates I don't know" so he collected people, dragged Rowyn into it (who is now very grateful for that), and made that happen.

Yes, there's bunk beds in the living room! I've been waiting for a chance to add that piece lol. They gave up their guest room for Alix to have a studio space, and then decided to keep the bunk beds as an additional space. Alix has taken to painting on them when he's bored or uninspired, so they're covered in little doodles and designs. Keegan likes to read there when he needs a little more space.

JAYDEN: The Domesticity of it All

This is one of my backlogged pieces that I've given up trying to edit so decided to post anyway😁

------

“Phew”, sighs Jayden, rubbing his stomach gently, “That was delicious!”

Alix chuckles, moving to collect their dinner plates and load them into the dishwasher. Jayden stands to help them wash the few dishes that can’t go in the dishwasher, and he wipes down the counters.

He smiles at the domesticity of it all, and he wraps his arms around Alix, pulling him towards his chest.

Alix grins up at him, and whispers “Hi.”

Jayden leans down to capture his lips in a kiss that lasts a few minutes too long.

Breathless, Alix pulls away first, a blush dusting his cheeks.

Jayden feels his stomach lurch and his heart start to race, at the fact that he can still make Alix so flustered.

Their eyes meet, and for a moment, neither moves, before Jayden tugs Alix back into a kiss, in one smooth move. They’re still locked in a heated kiss when the door clicks open.

They turn at the same time, and see Keegan standing in the doorway, Jamie behind him. They wear identical wide-eyed expressions, before Keegan groans dramatically.

“Ughhhh, do you have to do that in the kitchen? It’s where the food is, you know! The food we have to, I don’t know, eat!” he huffs in mock outrage, making his way into the flat.

“I don’t know, Keegan. I think they’re pretty cute,” interjects Jamie.

“Of course you would,” grumbles Keegan.

“Hey, I take great offense to th-” starts Jamie, at the same time that Jayden says “I’ll have you know, we are very cute, thank you ver-”, before they're interrupted by Alix's burst of laughter, and they both pause in their defenses.

Jayden catches Alix’s eye, and soon they’re both laughing hysterically, while Keegan rolls his eyes in humour and pulls Jamie towards the living room, where they settle on the couch.

Jayden tugs Alix towards their room.

When they emerge, it’s with messy hair, swollen lips, and bashful grins. Jayden leans over to whisper in Alix’s ear “I love you”. He leans over to return the phrase, but instead takes in the scene in front of him.

Jayden crosses his arms, with a mischievous smirk.

He clears his throat, watching in amusement as Jamie and Keegan spring apart, looking sheepish.

Keegan had leapt off the couch, leaving Jamie to scramble into an upright position, face burning red. Keegan stutters “I… we were… it wasn’t-”

Jayden raises an eyebrow in judgment, and replies, “Uh-huh. You know, this is where we watch TV, right? You know, this is a communal space.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk, Jayden,” answers Keegan, emphasizing the use of his whole name.

Jamie’s head swivels from one to the other as though watching a tennis match, clearly enjoying the banter.

“Hypocrite!” calls Jayden.

“Maybe, but at least we’re not in the kitchen!”

“As if that was your main concern: you just can’t handle the wonderful relationship that we have.”

“I think I’ve proven many times that I can handle the two of you just fine, maybe considering the fact I'm the reason you two are even together.”

“Hey, we’d have figured it out sooner or later.”

Alix is practically doubled over from laughing so hard, and he collapses onto the couch next to Jamie.

Jayden huffs a laugh before settling next to Alix and throwing an arm across their shoulders, pulling him close. Still wheezing with laughter, he tucks himself into Jayden’s chest, and finishes his statement from before, whispering softly “I love you too”.

Keegan throws himself onto the couch next to Jamie, and they turn their attention to the TV that’s playing the end of a movie. A movie neither remembers the start of.

It’s only hours later, lying awake in bed, that Jayden registers the dull pain spreading through his stomach, and keeping him awake.

Now, it's not unusual for Jayden to be lying awake at night, and it’s not unusual for his stomach to be bothering him.

What is unusual, is the way his mouth is flooding with sticky saliva that he can’t swallow down. And the way he shivers in discomfort at the way his stomach tosses his dinner around.

He gently peels himself away from Alix’s back and palms at his stomach as it shifts uncomfortably.

He pulls himself to the living room, and settles on the bottom bunk bed, pulling the blanket over his head, and trying to fall asleep, to no avail.

As he continues to shift, trying to find a comfortable position, he feels as though he’s in imminent danger of losing his dinner all over himself and the bed. He quickly sits up, feeling his stomach jump into his throat.

He clamps a hand over his mouth, and swallows hard, trying not to vomit.

After a few minutes of careful breathing, and swallowing to make sure everything stays inside him, he lets a tiny burp sneak past his closed lips, but it offers no relief.

Too anxious to open his mouth, or move, really, he remains motionless for over an hour, until Alix creeps out of their room, rubbing his eyes blearily.

“Hey,” he croaks, his voice rough with sleep, “What are you doing out here?”

Jayden looks at him, with anxious pain-filled eyes, and Alix sits down next to him, carefully to not jostle the bed too much.

He notices the way Jayden’s pushing his lips together so tightly that they’re turning white, and the way his hand is gripping his shirt.

“Okay, are you anxious, or properly sick?” he asks, watching carefully for any response from his boyfriend.

Jayden holds up one hand with two fingers and watches as Alix’s eyes fill with sympathy and concern.

Alix pats his thigh gently through the blanket, and whispers a reassurance as he stands again. Jayden whines as he loses the contact and Alix starts to walk away.

Returning, he places a bowl next to Jayden on the blanket, and tucks himself into the bed on his other side. Jayden immediately melts into Alix’s side, and he sighs in relief when Alix’s hand finds his belly.

With gentle strokes, Alix’s hand circles his belly, and soothes the organ.

Jayden can tell that Alix is wavering, starting to drift into sleep again. Jayden starts to relax too, feeling much calmer with Alix's hand on his belly.

He closes his eyes, content to try and sleep once more, and he’s surprised to find that when he next opens his eyes, it’s clear he’s been asleep for a few hours.

Unfortunately, he has no time to appreciate this, as he fumbles for the bowl still sitting next to him, before pitching forward with a heave, as vomit spills from his lips.

After the initial flood of vomit, he’s left gasping for air, and he searches through the blankets for Alix’s hand. Finding it, he squeezes it hard.

When Jayden feels Alix startle awake, he slurs out “Lex… I d-don’t… fffeeel good-d”, before being forced forward as more sick falls into the bowl.

Alix wraps one arm around his shoulders, holding him steady, and threads his other hand through his boyfriend’s messy hair. He keeps a soothing pressure, without much friction to provide the maximum support.

He lurches with another heave, vomit still pouring into the bowl, clutched in his white-knuckled grip.

Once he’s finished being sick, he spits out the sticky saliva coating his mouth.

Alix hands him a glass of water, and he carefully takes a sip. When he realizes how thirsty he is, he starts drinking with gusto, and Alix quickly pulls the glass away saying “Careful! You’ll make yours-”

He cuts himself off and Jayden pulls the bowl back towards him, and the water spills back out his mouth into the bowl, and he’s left choking for air.

“Breathe, Jay. You’re okay. I’m right here.” mutters Alix.

Jayden burps, bringing up a splash of bile and water. Cringing at the bitter taste, he spits into the bowl, before setting it aside.

Alix hands him the water again, and he’s careful to take slow, little sips this time,

Once he has some water in his belly, and he’s not in immediate danger of throwing it up, his body seems to give in and grant him the rest he so desperately needs.

Just as he’s sinking into the bed, Alix nudges him, and whispers “We should head back to our actual bed. Otherwise Jamie will wake us up in the morning.”

Jayden groans as he pushes himself up. He stands, and his legs almost buckle under his weight, and Alix props him up.

“I got you, I got you,” he mutters frantically, stumbling under the weight of his boyfriend. They shuffle as one to their bedroom, where they gently tip backward onto the sheets.

Twisting around, Alix gently pulls the covers from under Jayden and bundles him up in the blanket, before placing the garbage bin on the floor next to him, and slipping into the bed next to his boyfriend.

They wake again, at 3:00 in the morning. Jayden to try and cough up more of his stomach contents, despite being rung dry, and Alix to soothe him and stroke his back while he dry heaves fruitlessly.

When his stomach finally calms from this newest assault, Jayden has tears clinging to his lashes from the effort, and he whimpers “It hurts, Lexi”.

“Aw, I'm sorry sweetheart! Come here,” he replies, pulling Jayden down, to rest against his chest.

Jayden groans when Alix shoves a water bottle in front of his face. “Nooooo,” he whines, trying to push it away.

“Not an option, Jay,” answers Alix, tipping some water into his mouth.

He swallows carefully, relieved when the water seems to stay put.

He relaxes onto Alix, who runs his fingers through his shaggy blond hair, and whispers his fingers over his arm, lulling him to sleep.

He sleeps fitfully for the next few hours, struggling to stay asleep as his stomach gurgles unhappily and the nausea persists despite his stomach being mostly empty.

When he wakes for the hundredth time, he rolls over, groaning in discomfort as the motion puts pressure on his sore stomach.

Alix shifts under him, mumbling a little in his sleep, his hand finding its way back into Jayden’s hair, before he settles again.

Jayden’s stomach fills with a swirling motion, this time not due to nausea, but rather to the way Alix unconsciously gravitates towards him, and the warmth he feels with Alix’s hand in his hair.

This is a swirling of butterflies, and a warm fluttering in his chest.

He smiles gently, tucking his face into Alix’s chest and drifting asleep once more.

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

Last call for thoughts and opinions :)

Okay, not that this is really that big a decision, but I've used two different names in my notes and now I like them both...

I'm trying to actually flesh out his character a bit more, working on adding some personality and quirks so I can do a proper introduction one of these days

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

Dressing Up

"Sit, sit, sit," Bella grinned, shoving Luke back on their bed and raising several bags of clothing. Bella liked thrift shopping more than regular shopping and she regularly bought the weirdest stuff. A little chess game sitting in their living room even though she didn't know how to play. An antique radio that hadn't worked in the past 20 years. A writing machine... This evening, however, she was holding actual bags from a clothing shop.

"I'm sat," Luke chuckled, trying to wrap an arm around her waist but she slipped away quickly from him, "what's- Oh okay," he opened a wide smile as his wife stripped down her grey baby tee, throwing it at his face, hands dropping to her jeans, "c'mere, sexy-"

"Not that kind of activity," Bella rolled her eyes, throwing the jeans on his chest with all her force, "I want your opinion on the dress I'll wear for the wedding."

"You tease," Luke scoffed, sitting up correctly against the pillows while Bella disappeared inside their closet with her several bags, "were you upset about not being my plus one...?"

"Of course not," Bella's voice travelled since she had left the door open, strained as she squeezed herself inside of outfit number one, "you and Angie will look great together in the pics, I think Jonah did the right call pairing you up."

Luke frowned, opening his mouth to tell her that he was actually asking if Bella wasn't upset about not being a bridesmaid, but then the ginger walked back in the room, on her tiptoes to mimic heels.

"What do you think?"

"I think... I think you are..." He let his words trail off, eyeing her up and down, squeezed in a dress with long sleeves, covered in black sequins, hugging her figure, "...so gorgeous."

"Lucas," Bella groaned, clapping her hands, "focus. The dress, what do you think of the dress?"

He sighed, "it's beautiful, but uh- Black? For a wedding?"

"Jonah said it was fine," Bella pouted, eyeing her reflection critically on the mirror right next to their dresser, "you don't think so?"

"It's a little too gloomy, baby. If it was our wedding, sure, but Jon and Leo's seems very... Frilly," Luke gave her an once over, "yeah, this is a no for me."

"Fiiine," Bell groaned, walking back to the closet, "I guess you're right, I'm always in black. I won't even feel fancy..."

"Exactly, you need something different," he fell on his side, resting his cheek on his hand, elbow on the mattress and opened a pleased smile as he could see Bella's naked back shimming out of the dress, "ooh red? That's spicy."

"How do- Luke!" Bella glared at him, kicking the closet door shut, "wait until I finish getting dressed!"

"I was appreciating the view!" He cried out, chuckling and falling on his back, staring at the ceiling as he waited. A minute later Bella came out again.

This time her curls had fallen from the loose bun, creating an auburn mane around her face. She was in a strapless dress, blood red, with a flared bottom. The bodice was structured like a corset, the back all laced up.

"Oh la la," Luke teased, grinning, "mi latina fogosa-"

"Oh god, shut the fuck up," Bella groaned, planting her hands on her hips, "It's very... Sofia Vergara, right? It's giving Modern Family."

"Sofia Vergara is the milf of my fucking dreAM-BELL!" Lucas laughed as Bella huffed and grabbed one of the pillows, hitting him with it, "ISABELLA!"

"You asshole," she shoved his arm, easily freeing her wrists from his hands, "I hate it, not the one."

"I think you look ridiculously hot," Luke wrinkled his nose as he disagreed, moving on the bed so he could try and squeeze her ass, only to receive a slap to his hand.

"Pervert," Bella glared at him, stomping back to the closet, "I don't wanna look ridiculously hot," she quoted him, voice distorting as she mimicked his voice, "I wanna look beautiful. You saw the invites, it'll be classy."

"You're always beautiful, Bell," Luke frowned, still shaking with the giggles, "don't be silly."

"I'm not," she insisted, "you don't get it, you can just put on a suit and open that million bucks smile and suddenly you're the cover of Forbes magazine, I'm not like that-"

His easy smile from before slipped, as he sensed an actual insecure tone, "Isa, what the hell? Where's this coming from?"

"It's a class issue, rich boy," Bella scoffed and he could hear her struggle to put on the next dress, "you don't get it, you were born in wealth, you don't have to perform-"

"What the fuck, neither do you? It's Jonah and Leo's wedding, baby, you've known them for six years now. You don't have to fake to be anyone but you-"

He heard a sigh, then Bella's voice, a lot more serious, "you simply don't get it, Luke. I can't explain, it's not- Just help me pick a dress? One that I look fancy in?"

Lucas was now a lot more concerned and frustrated, the chill energy from before all but vanishing, "Bella-"

"Please?"

He hated that despondent tone in her voice. It didn't belong to Bella, his wife was loud, sarcastic, a little mean, funny, caring, but she was never... Sad and embarrassed.

"Okay, baby," he sighed, crossing his arms. It took a minute more, although Lucas suspected she was just collecting herself and then she stepped out in a new dress.

It was brown, covered in sequins and the first one that wasn't form fitting. It didn't feel like Bella at all, "I hate it."

"What?" Bella jumped, spooked by his tenacious tone, "really? I think it's pretty, it's Wendy's pick-"

"Yeah, I can tell," Luke scoffed, deciding he could not understand the full issue, but he'd be damned if he'd let Bella go dressed as anyone but herself, "I hate it. Not the one."

"Aw," Bell pouted, smoothing her hand down the dress, "okay... Well, cross your fingers for the next one, I guess. It's my last..."

The next one was a significant level up from the brown dress. It was emerald green, which brought out the red in her hair and caused Luke to let out a dreamy sigh, "I love you in green," he moved on the bed so he was closer to the edge. It was form fitting, which was more her style, with the same long sleeves as the first dress, except it had a completely open back, "that's it. The one."

"You're not just saying that because the others weren't it...?" Bella chewed on her lip, nervously as she stared at her reflection, turning around to see it from all angles, "are you sure...?"

"I'm sure," Luke jumped from the bed, so he could wrap her in a hug from behind, pressing a kiss to her temple and then pulling her hair up so it could expose her neck, bunching up the curls in a makeshift bun, "hair up. You look like a princess."

"Yeah?" Bell tilted her body to look him in the eyes, "you think?"

"I think I'd marry you again just to see you in this dress," he promised, pulling her by the neck and kissing her, "stunning."

Mentally, Luke made a note to get her emerald earrings.

[when-jaguars-are-sick]

JAYDEN: The Domesticity of it All

This is one of my backlogged pieces that I've given up trying to edit so decided to post anyway😁

------

“Phew”, sighs Jayden, rubbing his stomach gently, “That was delicious!”

Alix chuckles, moving to collect their dinner plates and load them into the dishwasher. Jayden stands to help them wash the few dishes that can’t go in the dishwasher, and he wipes down the counters.

He smiles at the domesticity of it all, and he wraps his arms around Alix, pulling him towards his chest.

Alix grins up at him, and whispers “Hi.”

Jayden leans down to capture his lips in a kiss that lasts a few minutes too long.

Breathless, Alix pulls away first, a blush dusting his cheeks.

Jayden feels his stomach lurch and his heart start to race, at the fact that he can still make Alix so flustered.

Their eyes meet, and for a moment, neither moves, before Jayden tugs Alix back into a kiss, in one smooth move. They’re still locked in a heated kiss when the door clicks open.

They turn at the same time, and see Keegan standing in the doorway, Jamie behind him. They wear identical wide-eyed expressions, before Keegan groans dramatically.

“Ughhhh, do you have to do that in the kitchen? It’s where the food is, you know! The food we have to, I don’t know, eat!” he huffs in mock outrage, making his way into the flat.

“I don’t know, Keegan. I think they’re pretty cute,” interjects Jamie.

“Of course you would,” grumbles Keegan.

“Hey, I take great offense to th-” starts Jamie, at the same time that Jayden says “I’ll have you know, we are very cute, thank you ver-”, before they're interrupted by Alix's burst of laughter, and they both pause in their defenses.

Jayden catches Alix’s eye, and soon they’re both laughing hysterically, while Keegan rolls his eyes in humour and pulls Jamie towards the living room, where they settle on the couch.

Jayden tugs Alix towards their room.

When they emerge, it’s with messy hair, swollen lips, and bashful grins. Jayden leans over to whisper in Alix’s ear “I love you”. He leans over to return the phrase, but instead takes in the scene in front of him.

Jayden crosses his arms, with a mischievous smirk.

He clears his throat, watching in amusement as Jamie and Keegan spring apart, looking sheepish.

Keegan had leapt off the couch, leaving Jamie to scramble into an upright position, face burning red. Keegan stutters “I… we were… it wasn’t-”

Jayden raises an eyebrow in judgment, and replies, “Uh-huh. You know, this is where we watch TV, right? You know, this is a communal space.”

“Oh, you’re one to talk, Jayden,” answers Keegan, emphasizing the use of his whole name.

Jamie’s head swivels from one to the other as though watching a tennis match, clearly enjoying the banter.

“Hypocrite!” calls Jayden.

“Maybe, but at least we’re not in the kitchen!”

“As if that was your main concern: you just can’t handle the wonderful relationship that we have.”

“I think I’ve proven many times that I can handle the two of you just fine, maybe considering the fact I'm the reason you two are even together.”

“Hey, we’d have figured it out sooner or later.”

Alix is practically doubled over from laughing so hard, and he collapses onto the couch next to Jamie.

Jayden huffs a laugh before settling next to Alix and throwing an arm across their shoulders, pulling him close. Still wheezing with laughter, he tucks himself into Jayden’s chest, and finishes his statement from before, whispering softly “I love you too”.

Keegan throws himself onto the couch next to Jamie, and they turn their attention to the TV that’s playing the end of a movie. A movie neither remembers the start of.

It’s only hours later, lying awake in bed, that Jayden registers the dull pain spreading through his stomach, and keeping him awake.

Now, it's not unusual for Jayden to be lying awake at night, and it’s not unusual for his stomach to be bothering him.

What is unusual, is the way his mouth is flooding with sticky saliva that he can’t swallow down. And the way he shivers in discomfort at the way his stomach tosses his dinner around.

He gently peels himself away from Alix’s back and palms at his stomach as it shifts uncomfortably.

He pulls himself to the living room, and settles on the bottom bunk bed, pulling the blanket over his head, and trying to fall asleep, to no avail.

As he continues to shift, trying to find a comfortable position, he feels as though he’s in imminent danger of losing his dinner all over himself and the bed. He quickly sits up, feeling his stomach jump into his throat.

He clamps a hand over his mouth, and swallows hard, trying not to vomit.

After a few minutes of careful breathing, and swallowing to make sure everything stays inside him, he lets a tiny burp sneak past his closed lips, but it offers no relief.

Too anxious to open his mouth, or move, really, he remains motionless for over an hour, until Alix creeps out of their room, rubbing his eyes blearily.

“Hey,” he croaks, his voice rough with sleep, “What are you doing out here?”

Jayden looks at him, with anxious pain-filled eyes, and Alix sits down next to him, carefully to not jostle the bed too much.

He notices the way Jayden’s pushing his lips together so tightly that they’re turning white, and the way his hand is gripping his shirt.

“Okay, are you anxious, or properly sick?” he asks, watching carefully for any response from his boyfriend.

Jayden holds up one hand with two fingers and watches as Alix’s eyes fill with sympathy and concern.

Alix pats his thigh gently through the blanket, and whispers a reassurance as he stands again. Jayden whines as he loses the contact and Alix starts to walk away.

Returning, he places a bowl next to Jayden on the blanket, and tucks himself into the bed on his other side. Jayden immediately melts into Alix’s side, and he sighs in relief when Alix’s hand finds his belly.

With gentle strokes, Alix’s hand circles his belly, and soothes the organ.

Jayden can tell that Alix is wavering, starting to drift into sleep again. Jayden starts to relax too, feeling much calmer with Alix's hand on his belly.

He closes his eyes, content to try and sleep once more, and he’s surprised to find that when he next opens his eyes, it’s clear he’s been asleep for a few hours.

Unfortunately, he has no time to appreciate this, as he fumbles for the bowl still sitting next to him, before pitching forward with a heave, as vomit spills from his lips.

After the initial flood of vomit, he’s left gasping for air, and he searches through the blankets for Alix’s hand. Finding it, he squeezes it hard.

When Jayden feels Alix startle awake, he slurs out “Lex… I d-don’t… fffeeel good-d”, before being forced forward as more sick falls into the bowl.

Alix wraps one arm around his shoulders, holding him steady, and threads his other hand through his boyfriend’s messy hair. He keeps a soothing pressure, without much friction to provide the maximum support.

He lurches with another heave, vomit still pouring into the bowl, clutched in his white-knuckled grip.

Once he’s finished being sick, he spits out the sticky saliva coating his mouth.

Alix hands him a glass of water, and he carefully takes a sip. When he realizes how thirsty he is, he starts drinking with gusto, and Alix quickly pulls the glass away saying “Careful! You’ll make yours-”

He cuts himself off and Jayden pulls the bowl back towards him, and the water spills back out his mouth into the bowl, and he’s left choking for air.

“Breathe, Jay. You’re okay. I’m right here.” mutters Alix.

Jayden burps, bringing up a splash of bile and water. Cringing at the bitter taste, he spits into the bowl, before setting it aside.

Alix hands him the water again, and he’s careful to take slow, little sips this time,

Once he has some water in his belly, and he’s not in immediate danger of throwing it up, his body seems to give in and grant him the rest he so desperately needs.

Just as he’s sinking into the bed, Alix nudges him, and whispers “We should head back to our actual bed. Otherwise Jamie will wake us up in the morning.”

Jayden groans as he pushes himself up. He stands, and his legs almost buckle under his weight, and Alix props him up.

“I got you, I got you,” he mutters frantically, stumbling under the weight of his boyfriend. They shuffle as one to their bedroom, where they gently tip backward onto the sheets.

Twisting around, Alix gently pulls the covers from under Jayden and bundles him up in the blanket, before placing the garbage bin on the floor next to him, and slipping into the bed next to his boyfriend.

They wake again, at 3:00 in the morning. Jayden to try and cough up more of his stomach contents, despite being rung dry, and Alix to soothe him and stroke his back while he dry heaves fruitlessly.

When his stomach finally calms from this newest assault, Jayden has tears clinging to his lashes from the effort, and he whimpers “It hurts, Lexi”.

“Aw, I'm sorry sweetheart! Come here,” he replies, pulling Jayden down, to rest against his chest.

Jayden groans when Alix shoves a water bottle in front of his face. “Nooooo,” he whines, trying to push it away.

“Not an option, Jay,” answers Alix, tipping some water into his mouth.

He swallows carefully, relieved when the water seems to stay put.

He relaxes onto Alix, who runs his fingers through his shaggy blond hair, and whispers his fingers over his arm, lulling him to sleep.

He sleeps fitfully for the next few hours, struggling to stay asleep as his stomach gurgles unhappily and the nausea persists despite his stomach being mostly empty.

When he wakes for the hundredth time, he rolls over, groaning in discomfort as the motion puts pressure on his sore stomach.

Alix shifts under him, mumbling a little in his sleep, his hand finding its way back into Jayden’s hair, before he settles again.

Jayden’s stomach fills with a swirling motion, this time not due to nausea, but rather to the way Alix unconsciously gravitates towards him, and the warmth he feels with Alix’s hand in his hair.

This is a swirling of butterflies, and a warm fluttering in his chest.

He smiles gently, tucking his face into Alix’s chest and drifting asleep once more.