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When the big, strong, indestructible character just looks so pathetic and sad. All he says is “My belly isn’t feeling so good...” in a really quiet voice.
- horrible stomach aches keeping characters in and out of the bathroom all night
- sick character with belly pains and diarrhea keeping a trashcan right next to their bed because they’re feeling too weak/dizzy and scared of not making it to the toilet
- a character so sick to their stomach they can’t make it to the toilet and completely messes their pants, and tearing up due to how ashamed they feel.
- thinking oh so regretfully about the spoiled food they must have ate while suffering a terrible stomach ache in bed
- feeling sick and weak from numerous toilet trips and deciding to just screw it and sleep in a large t-shirt (bonus points if it’s their SOs) and nothing else so they don’t need to pull anything down before having the poops
Gas cramps are such a good caretaking opportunity. Especially if their tummy is too tender to rub, so you’re stuck rubbing their back, waiting for the bubbles to pass on their own
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Characters getting belly cramps for whatever reason.
Hunger cramps... their stomach feeling like it's twisting into a knot every few minutes. Like a heavy rock trying to squeeze through it. Their stomach desperately trying to find something, anything to digest. The sharp feeling seemingly spreading to their back, when all of a sudden, it's all released in one big, drawn out rumble.
Bowel cramps... the kind you get when you're bloated or constipated. The sudden stabbing sensation spreading through their lower belly, like a knife into their belly button, paired with the sensation of fullness, making them feel huge... All they can do is wait and whimper until it passes.
Bowel cramps the second... the dangerous kind. Within seconds, you see the 'oh no' written all over their face. The familiar stabbing sensation quickly becomes a burn, a twist, a desire, no, a need. The bitter, churning pain spreads all the way up their belly, leaving them no choice but to GO.
Drinking something carbonated or eating too fast... when their stomach can't adjust to the sudden food or liquid intake quickly enough, and it feels like it's tearing them apart for a few seconds. It feels like death - but usually it's fixed with a relieving belch, or, more painfully, by waiting for it to pass.
Period pain... the pulling and squeezing sensation, a painful reminder of how hard their body is working to get something out. Who would have known how hard it could be to pretend nothing is happening when it spreads to your back and legs and makes you sweat all over?
Imagine a characters sick with a nasty cold. They feel gross enough to go to the doctor, where they find out they’ve got a sinus infection.
They go home with some hefty antibiotics to help knock out their infection. Their appetite has been super low, so their system is essentially empty. They take a pill with nothing in their stomach and go to bed.
They must have been too feverish to read the pill bottle, cause they’re surprised when they wake up in the middle of the night with excruciating gas pain. They grunt out a few short, wet ‘braps,’ but their stomach seems to need to let out something more solid, so they hurry to the toilet.
There’s not much in them to begin with, but a thin stream of acidic, burning shit sputters our of their ass. Their cramping belly and feverish skin has them dizzy and soaked in a cold sweat as they weakly strain. The way their tummy is gurgling and cramping makes them think they’ve got more to go, but the reality is they’re too empty to pass much more.
They sit on the toilet moaning as they struggle to pass tiny little “frrps” that sputter into the bowl dryly and provide them no relief. After being reduced to a tearful, slouched over lump, they decide to just get back to bed.
They chug a big glass of water before getting back to sleep. It soothes their empty, angry stomach enough to lull them to sleep, but they’re awoken a half hour later.
They barely make it to the toilet before an explosion of watery diarrhea surges from their rear, making them cry out in pain. They feel so ill. What’s the matter with them??
They notice their pill bottle on the bathroom sink and reach for it. In large warning letters it reads, “Take with a meal, may cause explosive diarrhea.” They groan. A loud, slimy gurgle struggles through their bowels and they sigh, grunting to push out a wet blast into the bowl.
After a few more sharts, they haul themselves back to bed. It’s almost morning, so they reach for their phone. They’re gonna need another day off.
My secret obsession has to do with the two wombs thing you mentioned, except it’s specifically centaurs. I’ve written thousands of words of self indulgent stories with this idea.
What I’ve found most appealing is an overdue centaur with the two wombs (one upper (human) one lower (horse)), but instead of having two “exits” they only have one (the horse exit). And therefore, it becomes an issue when the centaur begins labor in the upper womb, but not the lower womb, and so they’re laboring their foal hard into their lower womb, but there’s no room. Even better if their lower womb has more than one foal already, so they’re struggling to cram another one in there.
Gets even better when they’re frantically trying to break their lower womb’s waters to speed things up, but it just won’t break, so they’re getting bigger as their lower womb tries to accommodate for the new addition.
I started a self indulgent story collection called “monster midwife” and it’s about this midwife guy who runs a hospital for pregnant monsters/creatures. One of them is a centaur. I’ve also done a naga, a werewolf, and a fairy so far. I think the read time is like 2.5 hours, which is insane considering it’s 90% smut.
Anyway! I check your page literally everyday so I’m a big fan ;)
:] now this is a good concept. The pain and the stretch and the pressure of birthing out of one womb and into another, still-full womb…woe betide the unlucky bastard with 3 foals in their lower womb and two more trying to be born from the upper, with no relief…
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Been thinking about centaur preg. I've always been a fan of centaurs getting pregnant in their human uterus and then birthing into their horse uterus halfway through, then birthing a second time but for REAL.
But I've never really thought about all the implications aside from "haha two births."
Imagine going through your first birth - you have to get used to just how SUDDENLY your horse belly expanded all at once. It's not that much, not yet, but it's noticable.
Imagine going from being able to rub your baby in your human belly all the time to barely being able to reach them, or relying on someone else to rub your baby belly.
Imagine all the pain of giving birth, but then next day you don't have a baby to take care of. In fact, since the baby moved into your horse uterus, it's causing a lot less back pain and balance issues, etc. So you just have to go back to life, but everyone knows you just gave birth.
Imagine being with a centaur going through their first birth, but since there's no exterior hole for you to help massage/spread, all you can do is try to be supportive.
You think your baby is kicky before the first birth, but after? Its horse legs are now developing in earnest and it can kick. And ooh boy does it.
Pregnant werewolf who really should have gone on paternity leave a week ago. Labors all day at work. Water breaks on the way to the bus, but he knows what to do. Whelps out a pup at the bus stop, fully clothed, and pulls it out of his pants. Rides the bus feeling the next one coming but pants through it. Crouches on the sidewalk outside his apartment building and whelps it. Finds himself alone in the elevator and whelps the third. Juggles his keys and three newborn pups, finally gets into his apartment, closes the door, lets out a low howl as his fourth descends. Waddles to the bathroom, wraps his first three pups in towels, and turns on the bathtub. He can’t help it, the fourth one is whelped on the bath mat while the tub fills up. Finally he lowers himself into the water, naked, and starts pushing in earnest. He’s tired by the seventh, whimpering and crying by the ninth, and screaming helplessly through the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth. His battered pussy squeezes out lucky number 13 at dawn.
Thinking of a farming community that is thriving through a famine because the goddess of nature has blessed them to become pregnant with produce and give birth to their harvest.
All of the farmers become swollen with one kind of fruit or vegetable over the course of the season, some of them local and some from faraway lands. During the harvest, most will give birth to a humbly sized crop. But the extremely devout farmers push out so much that at feasts, they will recline on a table with their legs open for the townspeople to take fresh offerings straight from their holes, which drip with the delicious juices of whatever produce they carry.
No one ever risks going thirsty, either, as every pregnancy causes the chest to swell with water so pure that it doesn’t even need to be boiled before consumption. Many in the town are employed ‘milking’ the farmers to create a reservoir for all to use. The most faithful produce so much water that their tits sag heavily around their fertile bellies, full enough that each breast can be heard sloshing as they walk. They keep cups hanging on their belts so that they can send any thirsty passer-by on their way with a drink—that is, if they don’t have time to suckle straight from their teats.
And of course the pregnancies can manifest many interesting ways…
A farmer carrying grapes will feel like their womb is full of soft eggs, and if you gently push their belly around, you can feel all the bunches shifting. When they give birth, it comes as one long vine that they can’t push very hard if they want large bunches, so they often just labor passively for days and days as the vine coming out of them grows longer and longer.
Root vegetables with leafy tops start to poke out of the farmers’ holes when they’re ready, and in addition to pushing, they need the help of a second party to grip the stems and help pull them out of their womb.
Those growing butternut squashes end up with oblong bellies, and never know whether each squash will come out head-first—leaving them to struggle on the round base—of if they’ll crown around the base and the whole vegetable will shoot out of them.
Someone carrying oranges or apples might have a bumpy belly that tumbles around with their movements, needing often to be adjusted for their comfort, and ending up in lopsided shapes if they’re unattended.
While large bunches of bananas are preferred, some—the less experienced farmers, especially—cannot stretch far enough to admit very many at once, so a farmhand is required to carefully insert a tool deep inside them and break a few off the stem. A farmer who’s used to having their bananas broken into single deliveries must take care not to be caught alone when it’s time to push, because they’ll have no idea what to do when a bunch of 10 or more starts spreading them.
Those who grow watermelons and pumpkins can often be seen in the goddesses’ temple, nervously rubbing the discolored, paper thin skin of their bellies as their body struggles to contain their bounty. With enough prayer and meditation, they can achieve a trance state for the birth, where the goddess will only allow them to feel as much as they want. For some, this is only a fraction of the pressure, which is still enough to make their groans echo in the temple. For others, this is the full impact of the birth, their bodies tortured as they’re pushed past the edge of human ability, their hearts in rapture at the chance to show their goddess how much they are willing to do for her.
It’s always important to be sure the harvests are ripe, too, of course. A farmer must pay close attention to the first of their delivery, and if it’s still green, they must stop pushing immediately and force what they can back inside. It’s quite common, especially for less experienced farmers, to need to postpone their birth by a few days or even weeks. Several farmers in this tender state can usually be found at the temple, moaning and groaning in misery as they clutch their contracting bellies and pray to the goddess for relief. Every day, the faithful visit them to comfort and soothe them, massaging them, holding them, even pleasuring them or inserting blessed artifacts into their holes to keep them plugged, so that they can at least answer the urge to push.
When the day finally comes to empty their aching bellies of the ripe harvest, it is not uncommon for the farmers to feel so pent up that each thing they push out makes them moan and jerk, slowly pushed towards the edge of pleasure. Often, the faithful attending to them will take the last fruit and fuck the farmer with it, until finally rewarding them with an almost unbearable orgasm, and then a sleep so peaceful and deep that they don’t even notice being carried home and put to bed. They are then allowed to rest for several days, first to recover… and then to germinate the next clump of seeds that has appeared in their belly.
The sharp-minded traveler might realize, once they ask around, that no one seems to carry a harvest of grain, and yet the people have ample bread. They might have a glass of the incredible wine, but search the town and find no barrels it could have come from.
Down below the temple, these questions are answered.
Criminals and heretics—sinners—are held prisoner. All of them are gagged, their muffled cries a disturbing choir in the darkness. Shackled high on the wall with their knees bound up by their chests are those without wombs, who grow so much wheat in their guts that their bellies are round and dense with the crop, heavy between their restrained thighs. They wince and squirm at the strange sensation of the stalks inside of them, but a bit of tickling is nothing compared to the threshing.
The faithful bring long tools and force them into the sinners’ holes, and thresh the wheat inside them with no care for how the sinner feels. The sinners scream until they injure their throats, then keep thrashing in their bonds as the tools torture their insides. They find no purpose or meaning in this suffering, only sobbing and shaking their heads as more tools are produced to gather the wheat, chaff, and other debris from inside them. Every little bit must be gathered, so they endure hours of cruel tools tirelessly searching their guts, sometimes going so deep that the tips tent their deflated bellies. They think no agony could be worse, but they will miss the tools if they ever try to push out the wheat on their own…
Those with wombs require no restraint. They could never get far with their bellies like this. Each one grows enormous yields of grapes, but when it comes time to birth them, they’re plugged up. Then, their contractions come, and in the course of the cramping and their desperate pushing, the grapes are crushed inside of them. Of course, a member of the faithful visits them to make sure every grape is squished, roughly pressing and squeezing their belly until it’s clear no grapes are left intact.
Then comes the fermenting.
Wombs that were once shaped by the weight of the plant matter within begin to grow in every direction, stretching and stretching as carbon dioxide fills them. Their bellies end up ballooning out, unbearably taut, their abdomens and pelvises and hips all screaming with constant pressure that only grows worse and worse. They shriek into the gags that they’re going to burst, but the faithful just chuckle as they walk by.
The joke, of course, is the evidence that they’ll never burst, even if the wine ferments in their bellies for years to come. The proof of this lies further into the chamber, where the worst of the criminals and the most blasphemous heretics groan constantly, their wombs so tight with gas that a pin’s head probably could pop them. Their spines are bowed, their lungs crushed and hearts slowed, rib cages and pelvises both forced back to make room for the fullness of their bellies. With every tortured breath, the audible sound of sloshing echoes within, wine beyond value growing rich inside them.
Even if they could walk, they’re in no state to escape. Years of wine on their membranes has left them completely saturated, every waking moment now spent effectively blackout drunk. Alcohol poisoning should have killed them a long time ago if the misuse of their organs didn’t, but the goddess’s blessing is for the survival of the people; though it may strain the body, it may not kill it. She meant this as a mercy.
For those whose wombs are reduced to wine barrels, death would be the mercy.
But they are hardly aware of their own situation anymore. One chosen from the group—a criminal, who can’t recall their crime or their name—doesn’t even notice when the faithful inserts a tool thin tool, and then the neck of a wine bottle into their pussy. A deft action with the tool, and the seal that’s kept their cervix plugged for years is removed. Air hisses quietly out, a sound not nearly dramatic enough for the sudden change in pressure inside their body. They have a moment of lucidity as the feeling of falling accompanies their wilting spine. Still, they aren’t even conscious enough to feel the relief.
Wine glugs into the bottle until it fills, then another, then another, deft hands switching them out, though precious drops still splatter on the floor. All told, it takes less than a minute to drain their womb, but in a lifetime, their belly would never return to its original shape. It remains massive and strangely round, but drooping now, like their whole frame does without the gas to hold it up. They look like a broken scarecrow, and it almost makes the faithful sad as they seal the wine bottles.
The criminal, for a fleeting moment of consciousness, misses being full.
But they don’t have to worry. The goddess will make another bounty in their belly in no time.
and sometimes the character wouldn’t try to push through sickness and do their day job or whatever. again i see what you’re going for but sometimes in these fics something else can happen. open your hearts and minds to scenarios such as “the character is actually pretty expressive about their needs and is willing to complain a lot but the other characters still don’t take it that seriously for whatever reason and have to deal with the guilt and quencies after”. or “the character takes a rest at the appropriate time (or earlier!) but then faces punishment/being ignored/hostility for doing so and that is what worsens their condition into a serious one.” or “the character is a practical one who informs people sensibly and takes every necessary step, yet to their distress their condition still spirals out of the control.” or whatever else but just do you see what i’m saying not every character is a silent sufferer and that isn’t the only way to put them in a situation . we can innovate
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Just realized I teased this like a week ago and then forgot to post it. Whoops.
Anyway, this is a flashback to when our boy JJ first started experiencing chronic pain, introducing his lifelong best friend, Marc. I hope you like it, I'm really fond of this one.
Written with @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak (obviously)
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Marc stormed down the street, glowering so severely that even the roadside vendors didn't dare speak to him. He didn't bother to pay attention to street signs as he walked; he didn't fucking care where he was headed, he just wanted to leave.
Stupid phone. Stupid photo. Stupid fucking JJ. What an idiot he'd been for thinking they were actually still friends. That he wasn't just another marketable accessory to build JJ’s insufferably expanding brand. He wondered how long it had been that way. JJ had been growing on social media since their early teens - so long now that in the depth of his timeline there were photos of them together back when Marc was still Marceline. Back when they had both been the weird artsy kids who liked to dance, whose eclectic senses of style had drawn them together… or had they?
What if it had been a part of the plan this whole time? What if JJ had never actually liked him, and just wanted someone cute with a matching aesthetic to be in pictures? Maybe that was why he had been so immediately accepting of Marc’s transition - their audience was overwhelmingly young queer folks. God, had he really let himself be a prop for almost a decade?
Marc only stopped walking when he realized where he was. Angrily, unconsciously, he had made his way back to somewhere safe and comfortable - the dance studio where he and JJ had grown up. Through the window, he could see Linh inside now, going through warm-ups with a group of young ballerinas. Panic shot through him at the idea of being seen, and Marc hastily ducked out of view, praying she hadn't noticed him. Dropping down onto the sidewalk, he hung his head in his hands. He wondered whether Linh would miss him being around. He wondered what JJ would tell her if she asked. Would she even notice at all? Had she known it was just a charade all along? Did she know that was the kind of person that her son was?
Lost in angry thoughts, Marc only realized how long he had been sulking when the door to the studio opened, children and their families trailing out in droves. Having no desire to be recognized by either the students or their teacher, he quickly stood and made a beeline for the train home.
He blocked JJ on everything that night.
Months had passed since their falling out, and aside from the occasional message from a weird fan or a mention from a mutual who wasn't aware of the rift, Marc had managed to keep his timeline clear of JJ. His mind, less so, but he was working on it. No point in letting someone who had never really cared about you waste your time, he told himself. The best you can do is just be better and be happy, even if only out of spite. So that's what he had done, throwing himself into his work, teaching and performing and making content of his own, because when he was busy he could just about pretend he wasn't heartbroken. He had been doing a great job of it as well, until the unavoidable news that JJ wasn't competing in the Europeans that year, and was uncertain for Worlds. The internet went nuts. Suddenly, Marc's messages were full of questions from fans who couldn't get answers anywhere else. Was it true that JJ was in rehab? Was he injured? Had he been sectioned following a botched suicide attempt? Did he have AIDS? Marc didn't know, and he told them so. Or rather, he thought about doing that. Considered telling them outright that he wasn't friends with JJ anymore, that they hadn't spoken in months. But even as hurt and angry as he was, he couldn't bring himself to cause more drama for JJ when there was clearly something wrong. Instead, he told the fans that JJ’s reasons were personal and that they should respect his privacy.
There was a mean little part of him that hoped JJ was having a mental breakdown. If he was completely manic, or on drugs, or some combination of the two, maybe everything he'd said was just a product of madness. Or at least, maybe he'd only half meant it. Maybe some day in the distant future they could reconcile. But Marc knew better than to expect that, really. It wasn't like he'd never seen JJ being cruel before. It was just that he'd never expected those teeth to be turned on him. Maybe this was what he deserved for daring to think he was so special.
As the messages from fans continued to pile up, Marc stood his ground, never conceding any information or lack thereof. He could've thrown JJ under the bus. Part of him thought he ought to. But part of him remembered the excitable kid who sat in on his childhood ballet lessons, gleefully demonstrating moves and offering encouragement to the students. The classmate who had sat by him in labs when other students had already picked their partners, happy to chat and doodle on their data sheets and goof their way through a failed experiment. The boy who had helped him buzz his hair in the bathroom at three in the morning and punched the classmate who called him a dyke the next day. The man who pulled him in front of a camera, insisting he was too talented to not share with the world, who had urged him to dress however he felt comfortable because fuck what society thought gender should look like.
And part of him remembered their last conversation. He couldn't recall how the argument had started, but Marc could hear the end of it in his head clear as a recording.
“...I only keep you around to make me look better. You think anybody cares about you? Please. You don't even have your own style, you're just a discount version of me. People hire you when they can't afford me, or they want the normie-friendly watered-down version. Be real. Get your own personality.”
It still hurt. It hurt because out of everybody, JJ had always seemed to be the one who believed in him, even more than his own parents. It hurt because JJ had once been the person who he had known the best, and now…now Marc didn't even know why he'd retreated from public life. He had, rather reluctantly, checked JJ's socials when no official announcement was made, and was shocked to see how sparsely he'd been posting.
He wanted to check in. He wanted to know why. He wanted to stop caring. But he couldn't. And so it lingered in the back of his mind, creeping and growing like mold in a basement that he thought he might never get rid of. He found himself finding reasons to get the metro lines he knew JJ took to training, to spend time in JJ’s favourite clubs, to peruse shops near the apartment where JJ and Linh lived.
Despite his hovering, Marc hadn't expected to truly cross paths. Catch a glimpse, surely, - hopefully, even - but he had assumed JJ would recognize him from afar and keep a hearty distance. It was nothing shy of a jump scare when JJ came round the corner from the next aisle of the store, looking pale and disheveled and a bit disoriented. He didn't seem to notice Marc at all, a strange tension holding him up like tightly gripped marionette strings, much stiffer than his usual graceful movement. Spotting the item he needed on a high shelf, JJ hesitated for a moment, then robotically extended his arm, stretching up on his tip toes to reach. His face scrunched for a fraction of a second, fingers nearly slipping from the package before he tightened his grip, easing gingerly back down onto flat feet. Marc watched from the corner of the aisle in confusion, cataloguing in his head all the ways that JJ had changed over the past few months. Could it be true that he was on drugs? He'd certainly lost weight, Marc was sure of it.
Without even the thought of a spring in his step, JJ continued down the aisle, dropping his newest acquisition into the basket slung on his arm. An uncanny hollowness came from the dark shadows beneath his eyes, matching the dull vacancy in his gaze.
“JJ?”
Marc found himself unable to swallow back the question in his voice as he called his old friend's name. JJ looked up, swaying as he fixed Marc with an unfocused stare. The longer he stood there, the more obvious it was that something was deeply wrong. All of his usual glitz and glam rock get-up was gone, with only a baggy band tee and some ripped jeans hanging off of his newly gaunt frame. The color in his hair had faded, grown-out roots not quite hidden under a beanie.
Silence hung in the air for a painfully long minute, Marc processing the sight before him while JJ’s mind moved in slow motion. Finally, a blink of realization crossed his face, followed by a look of panic, and JJ’s eyes began to dart around in search of an exit. His body was frozen for a moment before, without warning, he shoved his shopping basket into Marc's arms with a hasty “hold this,” and bolted from the aisle. Marc frowned, holding onto the basket automatically even as he watched JJ go in confusion. What was going on? Was JJ so scared to be seen by someone he knew?
Marc looked down into the basket to see whether he could glean any clues from the contents. The groceries, if they could even be called that, were sparse, almost depressingly so. A bag of rice, a tin of tea, and a stack of ramen packets. None of the usual fresh herbs and vegetables to accompany whichever meat had been haggled from the butcher. No sports drinks or protein bars. Not even JJ's favorite spicy chips. Marc frowned. He could buy the meager contents of the basket with the change in his pocket, but he wasn't sure it would sustain anyone nutritionally. He thought about JJ's sallow face, the slight movement of his throat just before he'd bolted, and something in his head clicked into place.
JJ was sick. Whether it was withdrawals or adjusting to meds somehow or, God forbid, the cancer that some of his fans had speculated about, this wasn't the diet of someone who was well. It was also uncomfortably reminiscent of the way the Nguyens had shopped before JJ had made it as a skater, before the sponsorships and the brand deals and the competition money. This was how JJ ate when he was broke and miserable.
Without even thinking, Marc set off through the shop with renewed purpose. He picked up a six pack of Powerade, a dozen eggs, some tinned tomatoes, headed to the fresh produce section to add spinach and cucumber and potatoes to the basket. He didn't think too hard as he perused the fruit aisle, grabbing bananas and melon and grapes alongside some ginger and turmeric root. He kept one eye on the entrance the whole time - JJ still hadn't come back in.
Having gathered actual proper sustenance, Marc walked quickly to the checkout. He bounced anxiously where he stood, practically throwing his money at the cashier before rushing outside with the groceries in his arms. Almost immediately, he came to a screeching halt.
Barely ten feet from the door was JJ, doubled over and shaking like a leaf. At his feet was a puddle of watery vomit, and an expression far more agonized than nausea twisted his face. He coughed, panting for breath until he spit up another trickle of liquid. In such a pitiful state, he hadn't even noticed Marc exit the shop.
“J?”
Marc approached him cautiously, trying not to startle him. JJ blinked up at him, eyes red-rimmed and watering.
“Leave me alone,” he choked out, stumbling a couple of steps away to lean against the wall. When Marc didn't move, he scrubbed his hand down his face. “Go away, Marc.”
“Go fuck yourself,” Marc replied, a little of his previous anger flaring up. “We're not doing this again.”
“Fine,” JJ bit back. “What did you come here for? To stand there and fucking gloat? Have your fill.”
“Do you know how worried I've been?” Marc snapped, taking a step closer. “Do you know what crazy shit people have been filling my DMs with, and I couldn't even ask you if you were okay? I told them all to mind their own business, by the way, so you're welcome for that.”
“You can tell them whatever you want,” JJ sneered, “I don't care. It hardly matters anyway. You don't need to fuss about me any more than they do.”
“Right.” Marc sighed. He understood what JJ was doing now, lashing out like a cornered dog. It still hurt, but the sick confusion had cleared. “Sure. I've only known you fifteen years. Come on, dude. You spent every Friday night at my house for the whole of primary school. I've seen you puke before.”
“I'm not sick,” JJ blurted, his pale face and pinched expression begging to disagree.
Marc's eyes flicked down to the puddle of vomit on the floor.
“Right.”
JJ's sour milk complexion flushed with embarrassed frustration. “It's not like that,” he cried. “I'm not, like… sick. It's… different,” he said, shoulders slumping as he realized how stupid he sounded.
“J, you're spewing up in the street at two in the afternoon,” Marc said drily. “It doesn't matter if it's a stomach bug or drugs or what, you're not well.”
“It's not like that,” JJ repeated, gritting his teeth through an involuntary grimace. He leaned more against the wall, breathing heavily as a fresh wave of pain seized his stomach and shot down through his lower body.
“Does your Ma know you're out?” Marc chirped, raising an eyebrow. “Why are you out? You know what, it doesn't matter. I'm taking you home.”
“No you're not,” JJ bristled. “I have food to pick up. Ma can't come home to an empty pantry.”
“I got your stupid food,” Marc sighed. “And I know that was for you, not Linh. Your Ma doesn't eat packet ramen. I got some other stuff too, so don't even pretend you need to go back in.”
“You shouldn't have done that,” JJ said, his voice faltering. “You really - I'll pay you back.”
“Shut the fuck up,” Marc replied evenly. Giving up on trying to coax JJ into good decisions, he stepped in close and took him by the arm. “Come on. You should be in bed.”
Though his instinct was to bristle and pull away, pain shot through him like lightning, freezing JJ in place. He swallowed a whimper, already feeling far too exposed and pathetic.
“Come on,” Marc repeated, tone gentling as he caught the pain in JJ's face. “Home time. It's been too long since I've seen your Ma anyway.”
JJ allowed Marc to lead him this time, his head hanging shamefully as he admitted, “She's asked about you.”
“Yeah, well it's hardly surprising,” Marc said blandly, swallowing down his own relief that Linh hadn't been aware of or involved in JJ’s momentary insanity.
“You'll have to stay a while if you want to see her, though.” JJ warned. “She’s picked up a few private gigs, they run pretty late.”
“She's not done that in ages,” Marc commented, more as a question than a statement.
“I know,” JJ muttered. He couldn't bring himself to explain the shame of Linh working extra to compensate for his own failures.
They lapsed into relative silence. It only made JJ's little groans of pain more obvious. Marc wondered if he was feeling sick again - he didn't think JJ was even aware of it, but his hand was pressing deep into his abdomen as they walked and he had curled protectively forwards to the point where he was walking like an old man.
When they reached JJ’s apartment building, the tone of the silence shifted. Marc had come to the grim realization that they had many, stairs to climb, and he wasn't sure he could carry JJ like that. While Marc was still staring at the first flight of stairs, trying to construct a plan, JJ simply steeled himself with a deep, shaky breath and started up. His movements were tense but practiced, leaving Marc to wonder just how many times he'd climbed the stairs in such a state. Swallowing his questions, he followed behind with the shopping bag, pausing to watch carefully each time JJ wavered.
Slow wasn't the word to describe it. All things considered, JJ was walking fairly quickly. But every second felt ten years long, the stiff, forced movements and pained, panting breath giving away everything he didn't dare show on his face. Even he didn't know how he continued to make the climb. The other day, he had overexerted himself to the point of collapsing in the stairwell, leaving him waiting in a pathetic heap until Linh could come to help him up. Just remembering it made him shudder. Despite the way his back, his belly, his legs, even his lungs screamed in protest, he fought to straighten his posture, remembering the sorrowfully pitying look on his mother's face and feeling his stomach turn at the idea of Marc mirroring the same expression.
Or maybe his stomach was just turning anyway. The nausea had been near constant today, and vomiting not far behind it. JJ could no longer tell whether he was still moving because he would be sick if he stopped, or because he knew he wouldn't be able to keep moving again. Just stopping to unlock the door was a struggle, his hands clumsy and his vision fuzzy.
“Here,” Marc muttered, panting from the stairs as he took the keys gently from JJ's hands. JJ slumped against the door, swallowing uncomfortably.
He tried to make it, he really did. Despite the pain, he walked as briskly as possible, but barely a few feet from the tiny bathroom, his body gave up. Without any further warning, JJ doubled over, what little was left in his stomach pouring onto the floor. There was a clatter from behind him as Marc dropped the groceries on the floor, cursing and hurrying over to steady him.
“You good?” He asked quietly, once JJ had caught his breath. “Shit brother, I've never seen you like this. Are you done, or…?”
JJ smacked his lips, groaning feebly. Marc frowned, squeezing the back of his neck as he waited for a response. For a second, he was reminded of raucous, reckless nights out before they'd learned their own limits. Paris had seemed so cool and esoteric to them then, despite having lived there their whole lives.
“Think ‘m empty,” JJ croaked eventually. He began to straighten up then paled, scrabbling with once hand for the small of his back. “Fuck,” he moaned. “Fuck! I need to…lie down.”
Marc didn't need to be told anything else, simply hauling JJ over to the couch and easing him down. Though he wasn't trying to be rough, he saw the fresh distortion of pain on JJ's face. “Brother,” he muttered, “what's happening?”
“There's a heating pad…” JJ's hand flopped uselessly towards the table. He lay stock still, breathing in fast, little pants through his teeth. “Can you…?”
“Yeah,” Marc nodded, leaning over to grab the heating pad. “What else can I do?” he asked, feeling utterly useless.
JJ couldn't reply, neck straining as the next wave of pain seized him. Marc sat on the edge of the fold-out bed, one hand on his friend's shoulder, his mind going a mile a minute. He would have noticed if JJ had picked up an injury, wouldn't he? But then what was this? He couldn't even begin to come up with options. JJ had seemed like his stomach was upset, but was the pain just that bad that it made him throw up? He certainly didn't seem to have a temperature.
As JJ stayed hunched, tense and silent save for the whimper in his throat, Marc took it upon himself to position the heating pad, smoothing it gently against the small of his back where he'd seen JJ clutching. “Here, is that better?”
JJ let out a trembling breath.
“Give it…a minute.”
“Okay,” Marc nodded. He had realized by now that there was no point asking questions, at least not until JJ settled, but he couldn't fathom what sort of injury would cause such pain, and he found himself wracking his brain for options. If JJ had gotten hurt in a competition, he would've seen, right? He would've heard? There was no way the information would've eluded his corner of the Internet. Maybe it was a training accident? Or even from a failed roller-skating stunt, for a video? He knew JJ was reckless, but was he that reckless? He looked down at his friend - still his friend, he thought, despite everything. JJ's eyes had slid closed but he was very still awake. “I'm going to stay until your Ma gets home, okay?”
The ghost of a smile twisted across JJ's lips.
“Okay.”
“And if you're actually ‘not sick’, I'm going to fix us something to eat.”
The smile became a grimace, JJ's hand straying back to his stomach.
“Maybe wait until I'm keeping fluids down."
Marc winced, his gaze drifting towards the mess on the floor. He ought to clean it up. He really didn't want to. “I'll get you some water,” he decided. “And a bin, to be safe.”
“Probably for the best,” JJ mumbled. His pale cheeks flushed and his barely open eyes flickered away from Marc's face. “Thank you.”
“Yeah,” Marc nodded, deliberately avoiding eye contact as well. He had too much going through his head that JJ was in no state to talk about. “Yeah, of course.”
It felt like a long time before JJ piped up again.
“I'm sorry,” he said solemnly. “I was…so mean.”
“You were a huge prick,” Marc agreed, “but you're forgiven, because I'm pretty sure you're dying.”
JJ sniggered, then groaned low in his throat, hips twisting as he reached for his back again.
“Not dying,” he assured Marc. “Just…pain.”
Marc frowned. “When did you get hurt? I never heard anything.”
JJ's face pinched. “I didn't.”
“Then…what?”
JJ’s face shifted again, tighter, frustrated.
“They don't know.”
“You've been to the doctor?” Marc asked.
“More times than I can fucking count,” JJ said bitterly.
“And they…what?”
“They don't have a clue,” JJ sighed. He slung his arm across his eyes. “Like, maybe just my nerves going nuts. Which is like…at least my spine isn't crumbling or something.”
Marc grimaced. “I… bro. That's terrible. How long have you been dealing with this?”
Embarrassment flushed JJ's cheeks. He knew he should've been honest with Marc since the beginning, but admitting just how long ago that was made him feel even stupider. “About six months,” he sighed.
“Jesus.”
Marc breathed out sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. He breathed again, wondering why his throat suddenly felt so swollen and tight. He knew he had missed JJ, but something about realizing that his friend had pushed him away, not out of malice, but from pain and fear, made the loneliness so much worse.
“I wish you could have told me,” he said eventually.
“Yeah, I…” JJ grimaced, turning his face away. He wished he could run, leave this situation like he'd made Marc leave all those months ago. “I didn't…I didn't want it to be real. If people knew…”
“What, did you think I would go running to some gossip rag?” Marc scoffed, properly offended.
JJ shook his head. “No, not the public. Fuck the public. I mean the real people in my life. No-one will look at me the same once they find out. Raffi keeps checking in on me like I'm on my deathbed. It's awful.”
“Well you can't blame him,” Marc said. “You look…”
“I know what I look like,” JJ muttered. “I know it's perfectly reasonable. It's still awful.”
Marc sighed. “I get it. I get it,” he nodded sympathetically, craning his neck to peer at JJ’s face. “You feeling a little steadier?” He asked.
JJ groaned. “Still hurts like a bitch,” he muttered. “But I don't think I'll puke again, if that's what you're asking.”
“You want that drink now?”
“Please. There are straws in the top drawer with the cutlery.”
Marc nodded, picking up the groceries he'd dropped earlier before making his way to the kitchen. He wanted to get food started - it was painfully obvious JJ hadn't been eating well, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know how much was poverty and how much was being too unwell to keep his weight up.
“I'll make us something to eat, yeah?” He called over his shoulder as he rummaged in the drawer for a straw. He popped it into one of the bottles of Powerade and carried it back. “I got the stuff for tomato eggs. I reckon your Ma will like that as well, right?”
“You always were her favourite son,” JJ teased, smiling wanly up as he took the bottle and held the straw awkwardly to his lips.
“Well it's an easy role to win with competition like you,” Marc teased. “All I have to do is not track paint into the house and use headphones when I'm listening to things at three in the morning.”
“Yes, but I'm guessing you haven't painted in months,” Marc smirked.
“That still counts!” JJ protested.
“Barely.” Marc squeezed JJ’s shoulder and stood up from the bed. “You want to put a show on or something while I cook? It's weird, being in here when it's quiet.”
“Uh, yeah. Don't judge, though,” JJ begged. “I've been stuck lying around for ages, I've already watched everything good.”
Marc laughed as he walked into the kitchen. “I'll temper my sense of decency in expectation.”
While dinner cooked, they bantered over the top of JJ’s trashy reality shows, catching up so effortlessly it was as if they'd never been apart. If it weren't for the occasional gasp and grimace from JJ, everything would have been normal.
“So…when did it start?” Marc asked eventually, deliberately not turning round to see JJ’s face.
Silence hung heavy in the air, a tangible grief that made Marc regret asking. He was about to say nevermind when JJ finally spoke.
“I was working on my routine for Europeans. The first time, I thought I was dying. I woke up feeling kind of sore but I assumed I'd just been training hard. I went to the rink anyway, because what was I gonna do, sit around at home? Raffi and I were figuring out choreography, and I went to do a flip…”
A rattly breath escaped JJ’s lips, and he took a slow sip of Powerade, staring somberly into the bottle.
“It was like I was struck by lightning. I fell. Hard. But I barely even noticed. The pain had already hit me midair, worse than hitting the ice ever could.”
“Jesus,” Marc sighed, finally turning away from the stove to look at JJ.
“The physio told me to rest it, and a couple of days later it seemed fine,” JJ continued, “so I went back to training. And then like…just over a week later it hit again on the metro. It hurt so bad I thought I was gonna puke. I nearly called an ambulance, I didn't know how I was gonna make it home.”
“How did you get home?” Marc fussed.
“I had to call Ma,” JJ admitted shamefully. “She had to leave a class early. I went and apologized to her boss the next day, but he was horrible about it.”
“She should come teach at my studio,” Marc grumbled. “He always was a prick.”
“Ma is not going to teach at a pole dancing studio,” JJ said, sounding vaguely offended on behalf of his mother.
“It's not just pole,” Marc shrugged. “But anyway, back to you. That was months ago, wasn't it?”
“Yeah,” JJ sighed. “I tried resting. I gave it a whole week off, but even just lying around the house, it would come out of nowhere. I went back to the physio, saw the doctor, bounced around to different specialists. No-one knows a fucking thing except that it's not my spine.”
“And is it getting worse?”
“Uh…” JJ’s forehead wrinkled. “Right now it's really bad. Has been for about a fortnight. There's something going on with my stomach too, and my, uh… my bladder. They think it's all connected but it's never been all at once before.”
What are you going to do? Marc just barely caught himself before asking it aloud, swallowing his thoughts before he could ask such a stupid question. He stared vacantly for a few moments before his mind could produce a better question. “Is there anything I can do?”
“What, other than scrape me off the floor and drag me home and clean up my puke?” JJ asked, with a bitter laugh that Marc knew wasn't aimed at him.
“I mean like, if you need a ride to the doctor or to be brought home from the rink or even just for me to go pick up something from the shops. That way you don't have to worry about your Ma doing it.” Marc clarified.
Though he knew Marc meant it helpfully, JJ felt a sting at the reminder of what a burden he had become on his mother. He went quiet, staring down at the clenched fists in his lap. The hardest part of this whole thing had been what it had done to Linh. He hated watching her come home from a long day, a little stooped, moving slowly. She'd always been thin, but she was back to eating like a bird, just like she had when he was a child and they were late in rent. When she reached to stroke his hair back, he could see the delicate bones in her wrist. And she was worried. All the time. He could swear the stress of it was making her hair go white.
“I have to worry about Ma,” JJ said quietly. “She doesn't worry about herself.”
“Of course you worry about your Ma,” Marc nodded, shifting to the other side of the counter to find bowls as the rice cooker burbled tunefully. “But maybe if I worry about her too, it takes a bit of the pressure off. You shouldn't have been out trying to shop today, not when you're feeling so ill. You could get hurt.”
“I'm not going to get hurt,” JJ grumbled, a petulant scowl on his face. “The only thing I hurt was my dignity. If I can't provide income, the least I can do is take care of errands for Ma.”
“You could get hurt,” Marc repeated. “You're vulnerable. Anyone could take advantage of that. Let me take care of errands. I like having an excuse to come over anyway.”
JJ prickled, the end of Marc’s argument falling on deaf ears as his critically injured ego took another crushing blow. “I can take care of myself. I'm in pain, not brain dead.”
“Yes, but you don't have to.” Marc's voice rose with exasperation. “God, will you stop for a minute and consider that if you don't let me do this, I'm literally going to lose my mind? You're my best fucking friend, JJ, just let me help you.”
There was a long, heavy silence. Marc didn't dare look across the room, staring studiously at the pan as he waited to see if he had pushed too far. Eventually, JJ piped up again, voice tiny and tight.
full, bubbly bellies that are just filled with a mess. rumbling uncontrollably despite you begging for a moment of silence (and no aching). poor you, how will you ever calm your belly at this point?
Oh god, my tummy... @ohgodmytummy - Tumblr Blog | Tumlook
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