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Smitty was dying.
He’d woken up knowing he was going to throw up. His stomach did a flip. Throwing himself off of the fold-out bed he and Matt and John had all been sharing, he staggered towards the bathroom. His shoulder collided with a nearby doorframe. Behind him, he could just hear the others talking, Grizzy calling out his name worriedly. John and Matt were mumbling, too.
Clapping a hand over his mouth, Smitty flailed to find the light switch. Yellowed lights bit into his eyes. His stomach flipped again.
Gagging, he grabbed onto the edge of the counter, doubled over, and threw up.
In the sink.
That wasn’t great, he wouldn’t lie. His knees were shaking, sweat running down his temples. Wavering forward, he retched again. There was a loud thump as his knee collided with the cabinet. He was starting to fall—
Someone grabbed him, arm wrapping around his side. Smitty groaned, tears in his eyes. He could smell and feel bile all over his face, which was nasty. “Easy, easy, I got you.” Matt said.
Bracing his elbows on the edge of the counter, Smitty retched again. It was an awful sound. Someone’s hand smoothed his hair back, there was a soft murmur. He didn’t hear it over his own choking, though. Someone turned the sink on. The faucet hummed loudly, water pouring into the bowl.
“Can someone go grab the trash bin?” Matt asked, a bit louder and voice directed at someone else.
Smitty’s nose burned. Shaking, he grabbed at Matt’s hand, digging his fingers into his friend’s arm. His head was spinning. He needed to lie down. He needed to lie down now, he was about to pass out—everything was so hot.
John was on his other side, supporting him, too. “You alright, Smit?”
He managed to shake his head, but that was a mistake because now everything was spinning again. Groaning, Smitty leaned harder into Matt and John. He really needed to lie down. With a gasp, he shuddered again. “Just spit it out, dude. All the, uh, the spit in your mouth is making you throw up more. Just keep spitting.”
He dry-heaved this time. Nothing came up. His knees buckled badly, he almost slammed his chin into the counter. If it weren’t for Matt and John, he would have. “I got the bucket!” Grizzy yelled, appearing.
“Okay, great. Get over here. John, let’s get him sitting, he’s shaking too much.” There must have been a nod. Slowly, Smitty was eased down to sitting, there was an empty trash bin being shoved in front of his face.
“Ugh, I never want to see tater tots again.” Yumi noted, apparently having glanced in the sink. “That’s nasty.”
“Shut up, Yumi.” Matt growled, pulling Smitty back against his chest. “Go help Puffer try and find the thermometer, he’s fucking burning. Or get him some water or something.”
A hand brushed his hair back from his forehead. Eyes fluttering, Smitty dropped his head back against Matt’s shoulder. “Hey, hey,” John started, “don’t pass out on us yet, Smit. Can you open your eyes?”
Smitty groaned, but did as asked. “’m tired.” He complained. “’m dyin’.”
“You’re not dying. You just have a fever.” John said softly.
Stomach twisting again, Smitty shoved off of Matt and dry heaved into the bin again. He was about to pass out. He was going to pass out. Grabbing onto Matt—or John, he didn’t know who—Smitty gasped.
“Here, I got some water. And a thermometer.” Puffer said. A cold glass was held to Smitty’s lips, and he added, “Wash your mouth out first, then we’ll get a temperature.”
Smitty nodded miserably, did as asked. Again. The thermometer was shoved in his mouth a few moments later, held in place by Matt. There were gentle hands on him, he was still being held to Matt’s chest. There was a small beep a few seconds later. “Shit.” Grizzy mumbled. “That’s bad, isn’t it?”
“How high is it?” John asked.
“Hundred and two?”
“In non-Freedom Units?” Matt cracked weakly.
“It’s…thirty-nine degrees.” John replied for him. “I think. I might be a bit off.”
“’m I shakin’?” Smitty glanced at his hands, where he was holding the bin. His fingers did seem to be shaking. Maybe that was just him. “don’ feel well…”
“We should get him lying down or something.”
“When do you need to call an ambulance?”
“Not in the States.” Smitty mumbled. Hopefully, it actually sounded legible. Was that the right word? “Too expensive.”
Closing his eyes, he tilted his face into Matt’s neck. Against his own skin, Matt’s felt cool. Pleasant, really. Shuddering, he groaned again. A hand rubbed up and down his arm. “You alright?”
“’m gonna pass out.” Smitty mumbled. “’m dyin’.”
“You’re not dying. But if you pass out, we’re calling an ambulance.” Smitty managed to nod miserably. He was so tired. He wanted to curl up and sleep or something.
There was more water being offered to him. “You can actually drink it this time.” Puffer said. Smitty didn’t even remember him leaving.
Eventually, they got him shifted around. He didn’t remember much of that, just the other guys debating what they were going to do and where they were going to put him. Apparently, Matt and John were fine sharing a bed with him still, shuffling over so that he had the edge of the bed. Smitty himself was not given a choice in the matter. Then, Matt was scooping him up bridal-style, with the bin in Smitty’s hands in case he threw up again, and he was being carried towards the fold-out bed.
It wasn’t even near sunrise, somewhere around three thirty in the morning. A glance at the clock left him with a stabbing pain in his right eye. He just turned away and buried his face in the pillows as best he could.
John’s hand lingered between his shoulders for a while, rubbing circles like he was a mom trying to comfort her sick toddler. Hopefully Smitty was making less of a mess, though he didn’t have the energy to care. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his face away, groaning low into the pillows. His body ached. He ached. His mouth still held the lingering taste of bile and gross things. His stomach felt filled with static, and not in a good way.
Somehow, though, he managed to drift off while Matt and John murmured over his head. He didn’t know exactly what they were saying.
Thankfully, none of them had an early panel at TwitchCon.
Matt was thanking every deity he knew the name of that Smitty didn’t have a panel at all, because otherwise he would have gotten up on stage and promptly keeled over. Probably while vomiting everywhere. Maybe on someone.
Unfortunately, his fever had gone up, hitting a hundred and three while he slept. John and Matt had shared a bed with him, made sure he didn’t have many blankets on top of him other than a thin sheet. Their body heat was also helping keep him from getting too cold.
Smitty wasn’t a good bedmate—which was unusual. When he wasn’t sick, Smitty slept like a damn rock. A far cry from Yumi, who had been exiled to sleep on a bench because he kicked everyone’s asses when he slept. Literally. That night, though, a sick Smitty had been tossing and turning, mumbling in his sleep and sweaty. Matt would’ve guessed he was having night terrors, but it didn’t really seem like night terrors. Just fever dreams.
Matt didn’t have a panel at all that day, so he volunteered to stay with Smitty that day.
It wasn’t really a busy day. Smitty slept on the couch for most of it, shivering and mumbling every so often in his sleep. Other than just lingering nearby and reading some books he had brought with him, Matt didn’t really do anything. Once, he walked over and moved Smitty’s head on the pillows, because he was going to get a crick in his neck at that position. He still didn’t stir.
Throwing his head back, Smitty groaned again, turned onto his other side. His back was facing Matt now, sides heaving as he gasped. Please be okay, Matt thought worriedly. He was pretty sure Smitty’s breathing was fine. He was probably just suffering from illness the same way every man did. His immune system was great until it wasn’t.
Around lunchtime, Matt ordered some chicken noodle soup on DoorDash. Smitty had to eat something, after all. He’d grabbed himself some other stuff from Panera, shoving one of the half-baguettes in his mouth as he tipped the driver and then walked back to Smitty’s bedside. Couchside? Whatever. Settling down on the floor, setting the bag to the side, he nudged Smitty’s shoulder.
“Smit? You with me?” He asked, hating waking him up. Face twitching, Smitty scrunched his nose up and then cracked his eyes open. Almost immediately, he tried to hide. Burrowing into the blanket laid over him, he tucked his face away. “Nope. No, you can’t do that. You gotta eat.”
“Don’ wanna.” Smitty moaned. Turning his head away even more, he wrapped the blankets around himself, too. Like a Smitty cocoon. Sighing, Matt glanced him over.
“I got you soup.” He prompted.
Smitty let out a pathetic, wavering moan. His shoulders hunched up more. Then, he raised his head, blinking miserably. With his glasses gone, he was left squinting at Matt. His eyes wandered around Matt’s face for a moment.
“Wha’ kind?” He slurred out.
“Chicken noodle. Come on, I’ll even pick the celery out if you want me to.” He let it be a bit sing-song as he told him that, wishing he could wave the soup bowl under Smitty’s nose.
Sighing, Smitty held out a hand. “Hel’ me up.”
Matt managed to get him sitting up, though Smitty mostly used the couch behind him to stay upright. Yawning, he blinked blearily at Matt. Then, he held his hands out. “Nope, I’m spoon-feeding you.”
“Like a baby bird?”
“No, like a sick Smitty.” Matt shook his head, carefully opening the soup. “Come on, man. You’re sick. I’m not gonna go spitting soup in your mouth.”
“That sounds disgusting.”
“You’re the one who brought it up.” Setting the lid to the side, Matt held out the black plastic spoon. Smitty stared at it for a bit, exhaling slowly. It kind of seemed like he had forgotten to eat, so Matt gently nudged him in the lips. Cracking his mouth open, Smitty willingly let Matt spoon soup to him.
They stayed like that for a while, until eventually Smitty had finished the entire cup of soup (an impressive amount of soup, honestly, especially considering he had thrown up earlier that day). By then, he was wavering where he sat. Matt barely even had to apply any pressure to push him back for him to lie down and sleep.
Looking at him, Matt sighed and laid a loose blanket over Smitty. Eyes closed, with a soft sigh of his own, his friend pulled the blankets closer.
Thankfully, they also had a thermometer Matt could stick in his ear, so he went, washed his hands, grabbed the thermometer, and then came back to check Smitty’s temp. Only so much he could figure out with putting his hand against the guy’s forehead. He wasn’t either of their moms. Didn’t naturally know how to do that kind of thing. (He wished his mom was there, she could make soup that would get Smitty’s temperature down and get him back on his feet within a day.)
The little thermometer—which kind of looked vaguely like a little white gun—beeped in annoyance. Frowning down at the screen, Matt read the number.
“Fuck, you bastard, how has your temp gone up?” He mumbled to himself. Somehow, Smitty’s temperature had gone from thirty-nine to forty.
Come on, Smitty. He thought, glancing at Smitty’s face. Getting up, he went to find some of the washrags, putting the thermometer to the side and washing his hands again. Just in case.
By the time he came back, Smitty was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. His fingers were tangled with the thin blanket he had. Gently, Matt spread one rag across the back of Smitty’s neck and the other across his forehead.
There was a soft groan, but Smitty didn’t stir.
He needs the rest, Matt thought, sighing as he sat next to him for a second. I just hope he does sleep.
Smitty came to with Matt swiping his forehead with a wet rag and spikes being driven into his eyes.
Face burning, he cried out. His hand landed on Matt’s arm. Digging his fingers into his friend’s arm, Smitty gasped. When he tried to shake his head, the spikes didn’t go anywhere. The pain worsened. He might have sobbed. He didn’t know. The lights were burning into his face, he couldn’t—“Jaren? Hey, Jaren—”
Grabbing Matt’s shoulder, Smitty threw himself to the side and threw up again.
And then passed out.
His day was going just perfect.
When he came to, Matt was holding his face, talking frantically. “Jaren. Jaren, come on. Come on, open your eyes, start breathing. Please, you gotta—just start breathing, please.”
Thrashing, Smitty let out another sound. Everything was way too bright. He had no clue what had just happened. Everything was just—fight or flight, and he didn’t have the strength to fight so he was only in flight mode. Or, well, panic mode. His face was too hot. He wanted to—he had to get up.
Smitty dragged himself upright and awkwardly slumped off the couch.
Matt caught him. “Jaren? Hey, I—fuck, shit, do I call the hospital? Ambulance? John?” There was a hand cupping the back of his neck. Sobbing again, Smitty kicked out. Everything was wrong. Everything was wrong wrong wrongwrongwrongheneededto—something—he didn’t know—
He was going to throw up again, or die, or—or he didn’t know. Something. His chest hurt. He couldn’t breathe. He was in Matt’s lap, held to his chest. He was shaking. Everything was shaking, and he didn’t know why. His fingers were shaking so badly, he couldn’t even hold onto Matt’s arms.
“I’ve got you. You’re okay. Just breathe.” Matt was talking to him now, a lot more calmly. Had he passed out again? What was going on? Was he losing time? His head hurt something Biblical, like someone was pounding a tent peg into his skull with a hammer.
Still shaking, Smitty opened his mouth and tried to talk. Everything was burning. Maybe he was burning. The world kept dipping in and out. “Wh—”
“Hey, you with me? You’re with me?” Matt asked.
Just barely, Smitty nodded.
“Okay, okay. Uh…you passed out. We gotta—we should call the hospital—an ambulance. Something. Someone.”
“No…” Smitty tried shoving him off, mumbling, “’m fine.”
“Dude, you passed out. I don’t know how to handle this.”
“Just…stress. Fever.” Waving a hand, Smitty added, “Don’ wanna go.”
Matt hesitated, going quiet for a few moments. Honestly, Smitty half thought he had passed out again. Then, with a sigh, Matt said, “Fine. But you gotta get cleaned up, so we’re gonna go and take a shower.”
With a shocking amount of grace, especially considering this was Matt Smitty was dealing with, Matt picked Smitty up bridal-style like he weighed maybe ten pounds, cradled him close, and then began to walk towards the shower. Cheek pressing awkwardly into Matt’s collarbone, Smitty huffed. Something processed, though. “We?” He echoed.
“Uh, yeah. Imma make sure you don’t fuckin’ drown in there, moron.” Matt said casually.
“’m not taking my pants off.”
“You’re covered in your own puke.” Matt fired back. “I’m not asking you to strip. I’m just gonna get the shirt and sweats off you. Sound alright?”
Swallowing, tasting bile in his mouth, he nodded.
Smitty felt weirdly small in Matt’s arms, and he really was trying to ignore it.
He was covered in his own sick. Honestly, that wasn’t what was bothering Matt. What did bother him was how hot Smitty was. His skin felt clammy. It almost felt like it was burning against Matt’s own. There was a thin sheen of sweat across his brow. While Smitty was out, he’d looked it up. A cold shower would make things worse, but lukewarm should be fine. The shower was big enough for two people. They could take one together. Matt could make sure his friend didn’t pass out and kill himself, Smitty could get cleaned up and then relaxed so he could sleep better. It’d be fine.
Forty degrees is bad. That’s hospital bad. He thought grimly, praying to Puffer’s God that Smitty would get better. If Smitty passed out again, or even got close, and it wasn’t just him falling asleep—or even if someone else in the group decided that Smitty should go to the hospital—then they were taking him. They’d at least go to Urgent Care or something. Or even the convention medics. Would he have to bring Smitty onto the grounds to do that? Maybe that’d be a bad idea.
He didn’t know what to do. He just knew that he needed to get Smitty to relax, cool down, and then get some more rest. Preferably rest that didn’t include him sweating into the sheets.
Setting Smitty on the toilet, Matt turned to bother with the shower. Smitty just sat there. Matt could feel his eyes on him the whole time. “Hope you like lukewarm showers,” he said, holding a hand beneath the spray to feel its temperature. It was going to be cold for at least fifteen seconds, maybe longer. Yumi had been bitching about it the night before.
Smitty hummed noncommittally. When he glanced over, Matt could see him listing to the side, head resting on the counter as he stared at the other wall. He was conscious, which was nice. His eyes flicked over to Matt.
“You are…not okay,” Matt sighed.
It was a bit awkward to get Smitty into the shower, working his clothes off to leave him in his boxers and then sitting him on what Matt prayed was actually a clean shower seat. It didn’t really matter as much as getting Smitty cooled off. He was way too pliant in Matt’s arms as he was manhandled, too.
Head falling against Matt’s stomach, Smitty groaned softly. His curls were sweaty under Matt’s fingers. “Don’t fall asleep on me, dude.” Matt teased, reaching over to grab the shampoo. Might as well help his friend out a bit. Why? He didn’t exactly know. It just felt like the right thing to do, and—and he needed to keep his hands busy instead of just standing there, anyways.
Neither of them said anything. Smitty was half-dozed off, leaning into Matt more and more. The only sounds were their own breathing and the water hammering onto their skin or the shower tile. As he scrubbed shampoo into Smitty’s hair, Matt watched some of the white foam wash away. Smitty’s skin felt hot.
“Smitty? You up?” He asked.
Smitty mumbled again and shook his head, sniffing loudly. “’m fine.”
“Okay. Imma need you to tip your head back so we can wash the soap out, okay?” There was another nod.
Smitty stayed awake the whole time Matt worked conditioner into his hair, then while Matt cleaned himself off. He started drifting off when Matt cleaned up his face a bit more, slumping into his shoulder. To be fair, Matt was crouched on the shower floor, so he was pretty aware of that happening. Smitty just leaned over and rested his head on his shoulder. And then he was out. It was as easy as that. His breathing evened, though. That was a good thing.
They’d get him some meds or something again when he was back in bed.
When Smitty woke up, it was to gentle fingers brushing through his hair and his friends’ quiet conversations.
Moaning, he tried to raise his head. The hand carding through his hair paused, pushing him back down. “Hey, hey, not right now.” That was Grizzy. As Smitty cracked his eyes open and squinted around, he could see that he was back on the couch. Either the thing with the shower and Matt had been a dream, or he’d genuinely fallen asleep on Matt and then been carried back or something. Grizzy had a pillow in his lap and Smitty lying down next to him, head on the pillow. “You able to drink something, Smitty?”
“Beer?” Smitty asked, kind of joking and kind of not. His head was pounding like a fuckin’ hangover, and he was sweaty again. He had been changed, though, into a fresh shirt and shorts. Matt’s work, maybe? Or his own. He didn’t really remember.
Grizzy’s fingers were back in his hair. And then John was there, holding out a glass of water and some meds. “Come on, Smit. Take these.” He urged, softly.
Smitty took them without even asking what it was.
Grizzy laughed, adding something in a warm tone to Matt. There was some kind of reply, but all Smitty could focus on was how hot he still was. Rolling onto his side, he buried his face in his pillow. And, as a result, kind of Grizzy’s leg. “Guys, let him sleep.” John scolded. “He needs the rest.”
“He needs some milk.” Puffer cracked.
Grabbing a nearby pillow, John chucked it at Puffer and nailed him in the face. Head snapping back, Puffer dramatically dropped into one of the chairs. He cried out, too. Smitty would have raised his head. He would have. But he was tired, really tired, and hot, and he wasn’t really hungry even as John was taking a plate of toast or some shit from Matt.
A chill ran through his skin, over his arms. He sucked in a sharper breath. Grizzy’s hand settled between his shoulders, rubbing his back. “Poor Smitty. Laid out by a common cold.” He teased softly.
“John’ll…hit you with a pillow, too.” Smitty half-mumbled into the pillow.
“Will he?”
“I will.” John offered. “Someone’s gotta do it, you know.”
“Right. Because Smitty can’t do it himself right now.” Grizzy added.
Huffing, Smitty tried to punch Grizzy’s knee. The blow glanced off instead, knuckles sliding pathetically against the guy’s jeans. It was fine. He wasn’t even trying in the first place, wasn’t interested in causing any damage. He was just…something. He was something.
“He can’t even take a shower on his own right now. I had to clean him up.” Matt argued.
“Hey,” There was a shift of clothes, clearly John pointing at Matt, “You chose to do that yourself. That’s on you.”
“I’m just saying, I’m not doing it the next time!”
With a deep breath, Smitty rolled over, clamped a hand over his ear, and tried to fall asleep to Grizzy and John laughing at Matt.