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When A is woken up in the middle of the night and at first theyâre not sure why. They rub their eyes and look around blearily; all looks in order. But damn theyâre hot. And as soon as that thought appears, they realize with a start itâs coming from next to them - and they look down in horror at B, laying curled into their side. B is absolutely radiating heat - so much so that A is sweaty just from being pressed against them, though no where near as drenched as B. B is shaking and whimpering pathetically, and looks pale even in the low light of the moon, with bright red spots high on their cheeks. A realizes they must not have been feeling well for a while and not mentioned anything, because with a fever like this thereâs no way B didnât go to bed feeling terribly unwell. And A hadnât noticed.
A tries to wake B up gently, knowing they need to take their temperature and get them some water and meds, but after a few gentle hair strokes and rubbing of Bâs arm, they realize B isnât rousing at all. And if anything their face seems more pained and frightened than it had a minute ago. A starts getting frantic, shaking B harder and calling their name in a panic. They see Bâs eyes flutter beneath the lids briefly, then stop as their head lolled even more towards the bed. Aâs stomach drops when they realize their arenât able to rouse B at all. Uh oh.
thinking of a character having to travel whlle sick
maybe theyve got a fever while riding a train and every little bump and sway of the vehicle sends their head spinning
they have to carry around heavy luggage with aching arms and stand in an uncomfortably crowded space while they wait in line to get their bags checked
maybe theyre horribly nauseous and struggling to maintain composure to avoid embarrassing themself as they get airsick near an anxious passenger
pressing their too-warm face against the cold glass of a window only to be met with the incessant vibrations that only worsen their headache
maybe sniffling/sneezing and coughing loudly, drawing the annoyed attention of other passengers and sheepishly ducking their head in shame, neck burning against the scrutiny
racked with chills and pulling their coat tighter around themself as they stifle a shiver, set off by every small breeze that may make its way through the open bus windows
traveling is already a hassle, why not make it just that slightest bit more unbearable by giving your character a pesky cold?
the way chronic pain, especially joint/bone/muscle pain, is amplified by 100 when the person is sickâŚeven the lowest of low grade fevers has them wincing with every movement
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pretend I havenât been MIA for a month. have a Lex migraine as a peace offering
if you have any questions, comments, requests, etc., send them my way!
tw for migraines, emeto, injections
By the third day, Lex had stopped calling it a headache.
Not out loud, of course. Out loud, it was still weather pressure. It was still bad sleep. It was still the stale, metallic exhaustion of too many obligations stacked too close together, the kind that made the bones behind his eyes ache and the muscles at the back of his neck feel like they had been tied into knots with wire.
On the first day, it had been easy to dismiss.
The sky had hung low over Los Angeles, gray and damp and strangely heavy, the clouds pressing down on the city like a hand over a mouth. Lex had woken before dawn after maybe two hours of sleep, his pulse already too aware of itself, his jaw sore from clenching through whatever thin, useless scraps of rest heâd managed to get. His skull had felt pressurized, tender at the temples, a dull throb settling behind one eye.
He had stood in the kitchen barefoot, hair mussed, one hand braced on the counter while the coffee machine hissed and sputtered. Star had sat at his feet, tail curled neatly around her paws, watching him with the grave suspicion of a tiny tuxedo nurse.
âItâs the weather,â he had muttered to her.
Star had blinked once. Her ears twitched and she let out a very soft, yet very offended, little chirp.
Lex had taken that as judgment.
Still, he had made breakfast for everyone. Carefully. Automatically. Gluten-free for Soren, exactly separated, no cross-contact, no shortcuts. His hands knew what to do even when his head felt full of rainwater. He had moved through the kitchen with that familiar, controlled efficiency, measuring, stirring, wiping down surfaces, checking labels he had checked a hundred times before.
The rhythm usually helped. Ritual with usefulness attached. Something productive enough to quiet the ugly little panic that lived under his ribs.
But every metallic clink of a spoon against ceramic had gone through him too sharply.
Every overhead light had seemed too white.
When Soren came in, still sleep-soft and quiet, Lex had already turned half the kitchen lights off and was pretending it was because the morning looked better dim.
Soren had looked at him for half a second too long.
Lex had smiled before Soren could ask.
That was day one: manageable. Annoying. A pulse behind the eye. A faint sourness in his stomach that he blamed on letting his tea steep too strong, even though he had barely touched it. He pushed through calls, rehearsal notes, texts from management, a quick errand, a meeting he didnât need to be at but went to anyway because Lexâs brain believed absence was a moral failure.
By evening, the headache had sharpened whenever he bent forward.
A hot, bright spike through the socket of his eye.
He had paused in the laundry room with one hand around a basket handle, eyes closed, waiting for the room to stop tilting in tiny, nauseating increments.
Then he had opened his eyes, swallowed hard, and kept going.
On the second day, it had become harder to lie to himself.
He woke with the pain already waiting.
Not worse exactlyânot at firstâbut deeper. Rooted. It had sunk into him overnight, threading itself behind his eyes, down the side of his neck, into the hinge of his jaw. His scalp felt bruised when he dragged his fingers through his hair. The left side of his face carried that strange migraine tenderness, like every nerve had been peeled raw and laid too close to the surface.
The weather had shifted again. Heat under cloud cover. Damp air. Pressure rising and falling like the city couldnât decide what kind of miserable it wanted to be.
Lex hated that his body noticed.
He hated that his skull seemed to know the atmosphere better than any weather app. Hated that stress, sleep loss, and a low gray sky could combine into something that made him feel trapped inside his own nervous system.
Still, he dressed. Still, he answered messages. Still, he ate half a piece of toast because Soren had been standing there and Lex didnât want to make that soft, observant expression worse.
The toast sat in his stomach like a stone.
By midafternoon, he could feel his digestion slowing in that awful, unmistakable way. It wasnât nausea at first, not exactly. It was stillness. A wrongness. His stomach felt too quiet, like a machine that had powered down with everything still inside it. Then came the tightness, low and deep, pulling across his abdomen in a tense, cramped band.
He kept pressing a hand there when no one was looking.
Not rubbing. Not yet. Just checking, almost accusingly, like he could catch his body in the act of betraying him.
The food remained.
Coffee curdled on top of it. Water sloshed faintly when he moved. By evening, the fullness had turned dense and bloated, a hard, swollen pressure that made sitting upright uncomfortable and bending forward quietly dangerous. His stomach felt packed too tightly under his ribs, like he had eaten far too much and then swallowed a brick for good measure.
Except he hadnât eaten enough for that.
That was the worst part.
His body could make abundance out of almost nothing when it wanted to punish him.
The migraine climbed with it. Pain pulsing behind both eyes now, though one side was worse, a deep blue-white throb that synchronized with his heartbeat. Light became texture. Sound became impact. Voices didnât just reach him; they struck him, small blunt objects against the inside of his skull.
He started closing his eyes whenever he could get away with it.
At first, it was only for a few seconds. In the car, waiting on Soren to get a prescription fill, one hand on the dashboard while the other covered his eyes, waiting for Soren and for once being glad he never drove anymore.
In the bathroom, seated on the closed toilet lid, elbows on knees, fingers pressed against his brow.
In the hallway outside the studio, leaning back against the wall while footsteps passed him like distant thunder.
Then the seconds stretched.
His body kept taking them.
He would close his eyes to block the light and wake five minutes later with his chin dipped toward his chest, mouth dry, stomach heavier than before. The dozing helped while he was gone. That was the cruel little trick of it. For those shallow, accidental slips into sleep, the nausea loosened its grip. The pain blurred at the edges. His body floated somewhere dim and almost tolerable.
Then he would surface.
And everything would come back meaner.
The fullness in his stomach would seem to have thickened while he was unaware. The cramps would wake with him, coiling tight and hot under his hand. The migraine would reassemble itself piece by piece: eye, temple, jaw, neck, throat, stomach. As if sleeping had not healed anything, only allowed the symptoms time to gather in the dark.
By the third day, Lex had gotten good at disappearing for ten minutes at a time.
Too good.
Soren noticed, because of course Soren noticed. Soren noticed the untouched water bottle. The way Lex kept his phone brightness turned all the way down. Sunglasses as much as possible and his usual prescription glasses every other time.
The way he stopped wearing his rings because the pressure of them annoyed him. The way he held himself carefully, shoulders slightly raised, abdomen guarded, every movement reduced to the smallest possible version of itself.
Ksenia noticed because Lex snapped at a sound check tech for dropping a cable, then immediately went still with shame so sharp it was practically visible.
âIâm fine,â Lex said before either of them asked.
Ksenia stared at him.
Soren said nothing.
That was worse.
Lex tried to make it to the end of the day anyway.
He nearly did.
Late afternoon found him on the couch in the apartment, technically upright, technically present, one knee drawn up while Star sat against his thigh with one paw pressed possessively over his leg. The room was dim except for the gray smear of daylight leaking through the curtains. SomeoneâSoren, probablyâhad turned off the overhead lights. The television was off. The apartment had taken on that careful, padded quiet people used around a sickroom before anyone admitted it was a sickroom.
Lex hated it.
He also could not make himself ask them to turn anything back on.
His head felt too full for his skull. Every pulse of pain seemed to push outward from the inside, swelling behind his eyes, pressing at his teeth, settling in the delicate bones of his face until even his cheekbones ached. His stomach had gone from tight to distended, not dramatically visible under his loose shirt unless one knew him well, but obvious to him in every breath. The bloating sat high and hard, stretching him from the inside. Each inhale nudged against it. Each exhale failed to ease it.
He had eaten maybe half a bowl of rice hours ago.
It felt like a feast gone rotten inside him.
Lex closed his eyes.
Just for a second.
Just to take the gray light away.
His thoughts thinned almost immediately. The room softened. Starâs weight against him became distant and warm. Somewhere nearby, Kseniaâs voice murmured low, then faded before the words became meaning. The nausea loosenedânot gone, never gone, but muffled under that strange dozing veil. His body, desperate and opportunistic, dragged him down before his pride could object.
He slept sitting up, poorly and briefly, with one hand curled over his stomach.
When he woke, it was because his own body startled him.
A cramp seized hard beneath his ribs, deep enough to punch a thin sound out of him before he could swallow it. His eyes snapped open to darkness behind his own lashes, then the dim room lurched into focus around him. For one terrible second, he didnât know where he was. Only that his head was splitting, his stomach was too full, and something inside him had shifted from discomfort into threat.
The nausea rose slow and thick.
Not sharp yet. Not immediate.
Worse.
It crawled up from the stagnant weight in his stomach, warm and sour, winding through his chest and into the back of his throat with awful patience. His mouth flooded. His skin prickled cold under a sudden flush of heat. The room tilted sideways though he hadnât moved.
Star stood at once, tiny claws pricking gently through his sweatpants.
Lex swallowed.
His stomach cramped again.
Harder.
He pressed his palm against it on instinct and instantly regretted it. The pressure pushed against the bloated tightness and sent a sick, rolling surge up his throat. He jerked his hand away, breathing shallowly through his nose, eyes half-lidded against the migraineâs violent pulse.
Sorenâs voice came from somewhere close.
âLex?â
Soft. Careful.
Still too loud.
Lex tried to answer. Truly, he did. The words were there, arranged somewhere behind the pain, but his mouth felt slow and his throat had gone slick with saliva.
He lifted one hand.
A useless gesture. A warning, maybe.
Then his stomach gave a low, ugly turn beneath his ribs, the kind that made his whole body understand before his mind caught up.
Soren didnât move right away.
He watched.
It was a quiet kind of watchingâone he had learned over time, honed into something almost instinctual. Not invasive. Not prying. Just⌠attentive in that careful, weightless way that didnât spook Lex into retreating further into himself.
Lex sat there trying to exist like nothing was wrong.
That was always the first tell.
Not the painâSoren couldnât see that, not directly. Not the nausea, not the pressure building behind his eyes or the slow, stubborn shutdown of his stomach. Those lived under skin and bone and silence.
But the way Lex held himself around itâthat, Soren could read.
Too still. Too contained.
Like if he moved too much, something might spill over.
Lexâs eyes had drifted closed again, just for a secondâjust long enough that his head tipped forward a fraction before he caught himself. His fingers flexed faintly against his stomach, then stilled when he seemed to realize heâd done it.
Soren filed it away.
Third time in ten minutes.
He let a few more seconds pass. Let Lex have the illusion of control.
Then, gentlyâ
âI think Iâm gonna lie down for a bit.â
Lexâs eyes opened, slow and heavy, like they had to drag themselves back to the surface. The dim light caught in them wrongâtoo glassy, too unfocused for someone who was supposedly fine.
Soren didnât look at him directly when he said it.
Didnât make it a question. Didnât make it an observation about Lex.
Just⌠a statement. Casual. Soft.
âHeadâs kinda⌠off.â
Not a lie that would hold up under scrutiny.
But Soren knew Lex wouldnât scrutinize it.
Because Lex loved him.
Because Lex always responded to that.
There was a beat. A small one.
Then Lex shifted, slow and careful, like every inch of movement had to be negotiated with his own body first.
ââŚyeah?â His voice came out quieter than usual, slightly rough around the edges. âYou okay?â
There it was.
Even now.
Soren hummed lightly, already pushing himself up from where heâd been leaning against the arm of the couch. âMm. Just a headache. Nothing crazy.â
He glanced at Lex then, just enough. Star let out a small meow Soren was sure was her way of calling bullshit, but if it was Lex didnât seem to notice.
âCome lay down with me? We donât have anything else today.â
He didnât add anything more than that.
Didnât press.
Didnât ask in a way that could be refused.
Just⌠left the space open. Try to smooth the inevitable thoughts of obligations and needing to fill them to be useful.
Lex hesitated.
Not outwardly. Not in any obvious way. But Soren saw it in the micro-second pause, in the way Lexâs gaze dropped, in the faint tightening of his shoulders like his body was bracing against something internal.
Soren could practically hear the argument in his head.
Youâre fine.
He needs you.
You can rest later.
Just a little while.
Lex exhaled.
âYeah,â he said, softer. âYeah, okay.â
Star was already on her feet before either of them moved.
She didnât wait to be called.
She slipped off the couch with quiet purpose, tail held high, pacing once at Lexâs leg before trotting ahead like she already knew exactly where they were going and why.
Soren led without rushing.
The bedroom was dimmer than the rest of the apartment, curtains drawn enough to keep the light low and gentle. The bed was already half-unmadeâtypicalâblankets rumpled into something soft and familiar rather than neat.
Soren climbed in first.
Not because he needed to.
But because he knew Lex would follow easier if there was already a place for him.
He settled onto his side, back against the pillows, leaving space open in front of him. An invitation, not an instruction.
Lex took a second longer at the edge of the bed.
Just standing there, swaying slightlyânot enough to be obvious, but enough that Star circled his legs once, pressing against him insistently.
Then he climbed in.
Slow.
Careful.
Like gravity had gotten heavier without warning.
The moment he was down, something in him⌠gave.
It wasnât dramatic. There was no sigh of relief, no verbal acknowledgment. But the tension in his shoulders loosened by degrees, like muscles that had been held too tight for too long were finally being allowed to slacken.
He turned toward Soren almost immediately.
Instinct.
Lex always moved toward warmth when he needed it.
He curled in close, folding himself into Sorenâs space like he belonged thereâbecause he did. One arm slipped around Sorenâs waist, not tight, just enough to anchor himself. His forehead pressed into the hollow beneath Sorenâs collarbone, breath warm and uneven against his skin.
Star leapt up a second later and settled firmly along Lexâs side, pressed against his ribs like a living brace.
Sorenâs hand came up automatically.
Into Lexâs hair.
Slow, gentle passes, fingers threading through the dark strands, smoothing them back from his face. The kind of touch that didnât demand anything in return.
Lex exhaled into him.
A long, quiet breath that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than just his lungs.
For a few minutes, nothing happened.
Just breathing. Just the soft rhythm of Sorenâs hand moving through Lexâs hair. The faint, grounding weight of Star purring against him.
Then Lex shifted.
Not much.
Just enough that Soren felt it.
His hand slid lower, almost unconsciously, resting at Lexâs side where his shirt had ridden up slightly from the way heâd curled in.
Andâ
There.
Warm.
Tense.
Wrong.
Soren stilled for half a second, not pulling away, not pressing harder. Just⌠letting his palm rest there, feeling.
Lexâs stomach wasnât soft the way it usually was. On a normal day, Lex didnât have much of a stomach. Soren grew used to the underweight flatness, slightly easier to feel ribs and abdomen, when he and Alex laid like this. But this was different.
It was firm. Distended in a way that didnât match what heâd eatenâSoren knew exactly how much Lex had had that day. Bloated and hard. The fullness sat high, tight under his ribs, like everything inside him had stalled and swollen at once.
And beneath thatâ
Movement.
Slow, uneven gurgling.
Not normal digestion. Not the quiet background process of a body doing what it was supposed to do. This was heavier. Louder. The kind of internal shift that came with discomfort, with pressure building and nowhere for it to go.
Lex made a small sound.
Barely audible.
More breath than voice.
Soren felt a twitch in Lexâs stomach, followed by a soft wince of surprise and a thick swallow.
And thenâcloser.
He tucked himself further into Soren, pressing his face deeper into his chest like he was trying to hide there. One hand tightened faintly in the fabric of Sorenâs shirt, fingers curling and uncurling once before settling.
Soren didnât say anything.
Didnât call him out.
Didnât ask.
He just adjustedâsubtlyâso Lex could fit better. One leg shifting to support the way Lex had curled, his arm sliding more securely around his back, hand still moving in slow, steady strokes through his hair.
Lexâs breathing evened out.
Not fully.
There was still a hitch to it, a shallow quality that spoke to the pressure in his chest and stomach, the way his body was trying to work around itself. But it slowed. Deepened just enough to signal the edge of sleep.
He dozed.
Not the restless, half-aware drifting heâd been doing all day.
This was deeper.
His weight settled more fully into Soren. His grip loosened. His face relaxed in small, fragile waysâthe tension around his eyes easing, his jaw unclenching just slightly.
Out cold.
Soren stayed very still.
His hand never stopped moving.
He could feel everything now that Lex wasnât holding himself together so tightlyâthe subtle shifts in his stomach, the occasional tight pull of a cramp that made Lexâs body tense for a second even in sleep, the faint heat clinging to his skin from the migraine still burning through him.
He pressed a soft kiss into Lexâs hair.
Barely there.
âYeah,â he murmured under his breath, more to himself than anything else. âThought so.â
But he didnât wake him.
Didnât push.
Didnât try to fix it right now.
Lex would fight that.
So instead, Soren just held him.
Let him curl in, let him hide, let him finallyâfinallyâstop pretending for a little while.
There would be time to talk when Lex woke up.
For now, Soren just lay there in the dim quiet, one hand in Lexâs hair, the other resting lightly over the tense, unsettled rise of his stomach, and loved him through it.
-
Soren let time stretch.
It settled around them in that soft, dim way the apartment seemed to understand instinctivelyâlights low, noise reduced to nothing but the distant hum of the city and the quiet, steady rhythm of breathing. Lex stayed curled into him, weight fully surrendered now, his body no longer fighting itself in small, constant ways.
Sorenâs hand moved in slow, absent patterns along his back.
Up. Down. Gentle pressure through the fabric of his shirt.
It was as much for himself as it was for Lex.
A way to stay anchored.
Lex slept deeper than he had all day.
Not peacefullyânot entirely. Every so often, there was a small hitch in him. A tightening beneath Sorenâs palm where his stomach sat too full, too rigid. A faint shift of his shoulders when a cramp coiled and released under his ribs. But he didnât wake. He just⌠endured it in sleep, his body trying to process what his mind had refused to.
Soren drifted at the edges of sleep himself.
Not fully gone. Just hovering.
Enough that the moment Lex moved, he felt it.
It started small.
A tightening. A breath that went wrong.
Thenâ
Lex jerked.
It was sharp enough to snap Soren fully awake.
Lex sucked in a breath that sounded like it had caught halfway through his chest, like something had seized inside him and refused to let go. His body tensed all at once, folding inward, one hand pressing hard against his stomach as if he could hold something down by force.
For half a second, he stayed there.
Frozen.
Soren didnât speak yet.
He didnât have to.
Lexâs whole body answered for him.
ââoh, fuckââ
It came out tight. Barely formed. Lost halfway through the exhale as his stomach rolled hard enough to make his shoulders jerk.
And then he was moving.
Fast.
Too fast.
He untangled from Soren with none of the careful slowness from beforeâjust a sudden, desperate scramble, nearly tripping over the edge of the bed as he pushed himself up. Star startled, leaping back with a small chirp of protest as Lex staggered toward the door.
Soren was already up.
By the time Lex made it halfway down the hall, Soren was behind him.
He didnât try to stop him.
Didnât say anything.
There wasnât time for that.
Lex barely made it to the bathroom.
The door hit the wall with a dull crack as he shoved it open, dropping hard to his knees in front of the toilet with a breath that shook on the way out. His hands fumbled for the porcelain, gripping the edge like it was the only stable thing in the room.
The world tilted.
The migraine hit him full-force the moment he moved.
It surged up behind his eyes, sharp and blinding, pain detonating outward in hot, pulsing waves that made his vision stutter at the edges. Lightâwhat little there wasâfelt wrong. Too bright, too pointed. The sound of the door, of his own breathing, of Soren moving behind himâeverything landed too hard, too loud, like his skull had lost its ability to filter anything at all.
His stomach twisted.
Hard.
There was no gradual build this time.
No warning.
Justâ
A violent, upward surge that tore through the heavy, stagnant fullness sitting under his ribs.
Lex gagged.
Dry at first.
A harsh, dragging sound that pulled his whole body forward with it. His shoulders hunched, spine curving inward as his stomach contracted against the pressure, trying to force movement where everything had been stuck for far too long.
Nothing came up.
Just another gagâlonger this time, more force behind it. His throat burned with it, saliva flooding his mouth too fast to swallow. His eyes squeezed shut against the pain spiking through his head, the motion sending another wave of agony through his skull.
âEasy,â Soren murmured, already dropping down beside him.
His hand found Lexâs back immediately.
Steady.
Firm.
Not pressing yetâjust there, grounding, moving in slow circles between his shoulder blades as Lex gagged again, breath hitching, body fighting itself.
It came up on the fourth.
Slow.
Thick.
Dragged out of him in a way that made his whole frame shudder with the effort.
It didnât relieve anything.
That was the worst part.
His stomach was too full. Too stagnant. What came up felt like barely a fraction of what was there. The pressure under his ribs didnât easeâit shifted, rolling uneasily, threatening more without delivering it cleanly.
Lex coughed weakly, breath catching as he tried to inhale around the nausea that clung to the back of his throat. His hands tightened on the toilet, knuckles whitening.
Another wave hit.
He gagged againâharder this time, more desperateâbut it stalled halfway. His stomach seized, contracting against itself, but nothing followed through. Just that awful, dry, dragging pull that felt like it should have been productive and wasnât.
A strangled sound slipped out of him.
Frustration. Pain. Both.
Soren shifted closer.
âHey,â he said softly, voice low enough not to cut through Lexâs skull. âI know.â
He reached up instinctively, fingers brushing toward Lexâs hair to pull it backâ
Lex flinched hard.
A sharp, immediate recoil, his shoulders jerking away as if the touch itself had hurt.
ââdonâtââ Lex rasped, voice thin and strained, one hand coming up weakly to bat at the air between them. âToo muchââ
âOkay,â Soren said immediately, pulling his hand back without hesitation. âOkay, Iâve got you.â
He adjusted instead.
One hand stayed on Lexâs back, steady and slow, while the other hovered for a secondâthen moved lower.
To his stomach.
He didnât press right away.
Just rested his palm there, feeling.
Still tight.
Still distended.
Still full in a way that made everything inside Lex feel heavy and unmoving.
Another gag tore through him.
Nothing.
Just that awful, empty pull.
Soren made the call.
âBreathe,â he murmured, shifting his hand just slightly, bracing. âIâm gonna help you, okay?â
Lex didnât answer.
He didnât need to.
His whole body was already tensing for the next wave.
Soren pressed.
Not hardânot at first.
Just enough to encourage movement, a firm, careful pressure under Lexâs ribs where everything felt knotted and stuck.
Lex reacted immediately.
A sharp inhaleâalmost a gaspâas the pressure hit, the sensation overwhelming in combination with the migraine screaming behind his eyes. Pain flared through his head, bright and blinding, the added stimulus too much all at onceâ
But his stomach responded.
Violently.
The next gag turned into something deeper, more forceful, his body finally giving under the pressure. It dragged up more this timeâheavier, thickerâpulling a broken sound out of him as he doubled forward, shoulders shaking with the effort.
Soren kept his hand there.
Steady.
Gradually increasing pressure in time with Lexâs body, not forcing, just guidingâcoaxing everything upward so it wouldnât stall again.
Lex choked on a breath, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes without him even noticing. His head throbbed with every movement, every contraction sending sharp, splintering pain through his skull. The light felt like needles. The sound of his own gagging echoed too loudly in his ears.
But it was working.
More came up.
And more.
Each wave dragged out of him, long and miserable, his body wringing itself empty in slow, relentless pulls that left him shaking by the end of each one.
It wasnât quick.
It never was.
But it was moving.
Soren stayed with him through every second of it.
Hand on his back. Hand at his stomach. Voice low and steady when Lexâs breathing started to go uneven, grounding him when the dizziness spiked too hard.
âI know,â he murmured when Lex choked on a breath. âI know, itâs roughâjust let it happen.â
Lex barely processed the words.
But he leaned into the pressure.
Into the guidance.
Because as awful as it wasâhead splitting, stomach cramping, body shakingâ
It was better than being stuck.
Better than that horrible, unmoving fullness that had been sitting in him for hours.
Soren didnât stop until Lexâs body finally slowed.
Until the waves weakened.
Until the tightness under his hand softenedâjust slightly.
Only then did he ease the pressure, shifting his hand back to Lexâs spine, rubbing slow, grounding circles as Lex sagged forward, breath ragged, forehead nearly touching the porcelain.
âYeah,â Soren said quietly, more to him than anything else. âThatâs better. Iâve got you.â
And he did.
Every second of it.
Lex stayed folded over the toilet for a long moment after the worst of it passed.
Not still.
Just⌠emptied out in the ugliest possible way.
His body trembled in uneven aftershocks, muscles twitching and tightening under Sorenâs hands every few seconds like his nervous system couldnât decide whether it was finished panicking yet. His breathing came shallow and ragged through his mouth, throat raw enough that every inhale sounded scraped at the edges.
The migraine was monstrous now.
Soren could see it all over him.
Lexâs eyes stayed squeezed shut, not just from nausea anymore but because opening them clearly hurt. His face had gone pale beneath the sheen of sweat clinging to his skin, though there was still that flushed, overheated tint high across his cheekbones and ears that always came with his migraines. His lashes stuck together damply.
And underneath Sorenâs palm, Lexâs heartbeat was racing.
Too fast.
Adrenaline. Pain. Vomiting. Dysautonomia. More pain.
All feeding each other in one vicious loop.
Another weak gag pulled through him, though almost nothing followed it this time. Just saliva and a miserable little choke at the end that made him curl tighter around himself.
Soren rubbed slowly up his spine.
âThatâs okay,â he murmured quietly. âYouâre okay.â
Lex made a rough sound that might have been disagreement.
Then his shoulders dipped.
Just slightly.
But enough.
Sorenâs attention sharpened instantly.
The shift was subtle if you didnât know Lexâhis posture sagging heavier than before, the tension suddenly draining out of his arms in a way that wasnât relief so much as⌠depletion. His head lowered closer to the toilet seat. His breathing stuttered unevenly.
Pre-Presyncope.
Not fully presyncopic, but close. Close enough for Sorenâs stomach to tighten and grip on Lex to readjust to be a little more supportive.
âHey,â he said softly, moving closer immediately. âLex.â
Lex tried to answer.
Or maybe just tried to breathe.
It was hard to tell.
His hand slipped a little on the porcelain. His shoulders swayed faintly.
Soren wrapped an arm around him before gravity could decide things for them.
He shifted behind Lex carefully, one knee braced against the tile, pulling Lex gently back against his chest just enough to stabilize him. Lex let out a weak exhale as Sorenâs arm crossed under his shoulders, holding him upright without forcing him away from the toilet.
âThere you go,â Soren murmured. âIâve got you.â
Lexâs head tipped back just enough to rest briefly against Sorenâs shoulder.
His skin was burning.
But Soren could feel the cold sweat underneath it too.
That awful in-between place.
Not enough blood pressure. Too much nervous system chaos. The body struggling to recalibrate after violently emptying itself. All while being in excruciating pain from the crown of his head all the way down, probably past his shoulders and into his back.
Soren stayed exactly where he was.
One arm secure around Lexâs chest. The other rubbing slowly over his sternum and upper stomach, not pushing anymore, just grounding him through the shaking aftermath.
âNo water yet,â he said softly when Lex swallowed hard again. âJust breathe for me first.â
Lex gave the smallest nod against him.
He knew.
Even if he wanted water, his stomach would revolt instantly right now.
So they waited.
The bathroom stayed dim except for the weak amber nightlight near the outlet. Soft enough not to stab through Lexâs skull. The air smelled faintly medicinal now beneath the sourness of vomit and sweat.
Star cried onceâsmall and concerned. But she was quiet too as she strolled into the bathroom and found her objectively rightful position against Lexâs leg.
âThe queen has a message,â Soren said softly, earning a half attempt at a small chuckle out of Lex as he leaned his head back a little more against Sorenâs shoulder.
Soren continued rubbing slow circles over Lexâs chest.
He could feel every uneven breath.
Every tiny tremor.
The way Lexâs body kept trying to fold forward despite exhaustion, instinctively curling around the pain in his stomach and head.
Minutes passed like that.
Slow.
Careful.
Lexâs breathing gradually eased from ragged gasps into something less frighteningly shallow. Not normal. Not good. But less like he was about to drop out completely.
Only then did Soren speak again.
Very quietly.
âDo you want your shot?â
He asked it exactly the same way every time.
Never assuming.
Never reaching for it first.
Lex had once admittedâhalf-asleep, medicated, and horrified afterwardâthat unexpected medication made his skin crawl. Too many years of substances forced into his body one way or another. Too many moments where his autonomy had belonged to someone else.
So Soren always asked.
Even now.
Lex was silent for several seconds.
Soren could practically feel the internal war happening in real time.
Medication meant admitting this was severe.
Meant surrendering control.
Meant needing help.
But another pulse of pain crossed Lexâs face before he finally cracked one eye open slightly, immediately wincing from even that tiny amount of light.
ââŚyeah,â he whispered hoarsely. âFuck... I didnât want toâŚâ
âWe can wait?â Soren suggested.
Lex shook his head slowly. Very slow. Soren wouldâve missed it if he hadnât felt it.
âNeeds to stop,â Lex mumbled, âCanât do the pills. Not now.â
Relief flickered briefly through Sorenâs chest.
Not because Lex was sick.
Because he was finally letting someone help him. Finally admitting things he barely did.
âOkay,â Soren said gently. âOkay, baby.â
The endearment slipped out naturally, soft and warm.
Lex didnât even react to it.
That alone said enough.
Soren waited another couple minutes before moving, making absolutely sure Lex wasnât about to pitch forward again. Only when Lexâs breathing steadied enough to trust did Soren carefully help him sit back from the toilet.
Lex looked wrecked.
Completely wrecked.
His hair stuck damply to his forehead and neck. His pupils were blown wide from pain. His stomach was still visibly bloated beneath his shirt despite everything heâd gotten up, the muscles there tight and reactive every few seconds as another cramp rolled through him. He looked exhausted down to the marrow.
And still embarrassed by it somehow.
Soren kissed the side of his head lightly before standing.
âStay here. Iâll grab it.â
Lex leaned back weakly against the cabinet while Soren disappeared briefly into the bedroom.
By the time he came back with the injector, Lex had both eyes shut again, one hand pressed hard against his forehead now like he was physically trying to hold his skull together.
Soren crouched beside him again immediately.
âStill with me?â
âUnfortunately,â Lex muttered faintly.
Soren smiled despite himself.
Good sign.
âYour arm okay? Or do you want me to hit your thigh this time?â Soren asked.
âArm,â Lex said softly, âplease.â
Soren nodded.
He guided Lex through it exactly the same way every timeâpredictability mattered.
âIâm opening it.â
A click of plastic.
âIâm taking the cap off.â
Another tiny sound.
Lexâs hand found Sorenâs sleeve blindly, fingers curling into the fabric before Soren had even touched him with the injector.
âReady?â
Lex inhaled slowly through his nose.
Then nodded once.
Soren wrapped himself around Lex again before he pressed the injector against his upper arm and triggered it.
Lex jerked sharply.
ââfuckââ
The word snapped out of him instantly, more startled than dramatic, his entire body tensing hard against Soren as the medication burned into the muscle.
His grip crushed briefly around Sorenâs forearm.
Soren immediately rubbed his shoulder with his free hand, placing a soft kiss against the side of Lexâs head.
âI know. I know, sweetheart. Just a few seconds.â
Lex buried his face hard against Sorenâs shoulder once the injector clicked empty, breathing unevenly through the lingering sting.
âIt burns,â he mumbled miserably.
âYeah.â
Soren smoothed damp hair back carefully this time, avoiding pulling at it too much.
âThat part sucks.â
Lex huffed a weak, pained laugh against him before immediately regretting it, one hand returning to his head.
âOh my god.â
âDonât laugh. Your brain hates you right now.â
âIt always hates me.â
âThatâs true. At least you arenât breaking the migraine with a seizure again, right?â
Another tiny laugh. Softer this time. âRight. Thatâs worse⌠way worse. Shot still hurts like a bitch though.â
Then exhaustion swallowed him again almost immediately.
The medication wouldnât kick in fast for Lex.
Nothing ever did.
His body metabolized things strangely, reacted strangely, delayed things strangely. Sometimes the injection helped in thirty minutes. Sometimes an hour. Sometimes it worked in waves instead of all at once.
So now came the waiting part.
Soren slid an arm carefully around Lex again and helped him stand.
Lex swayed immediately.
Not dramatically. Just enough.
Soren tightened his hold automatically.
âNope,â he murmured. âYouâre not walking alone right now.â
Lex didnât argue.
Too tired.
That frightened Soren more than the vomiting had.
Together, slowly, they made it back to the bedroom.
Star immediately jumped onto the bed the moment she saw Lex, pacing anxiously near the pillows before settling into a watchful crouch.
Lex collapsed more than laid down.
He curled instinctively onto his side almost the second he hit the mattress, one arm wrapped around his still-cramping stomach while the other shielded his eyes from the dim room.
Soren climbed in behind him carefully.
One arm wrapped around Lexâs waist.
The other slid under the pillow beneath his head, fingers combing gently through his hair in slow passes.
Lex melted backward into him immediately.
Still trembling faintly.
Still overheated.
Still nauseous enough that Soren could feel the occasional hard swallow and the way his stomach kept turning uneasily beneath his arm.
But safer now.
Held.
Soren pressed a kiss against the back of his neck.
âWe wait now,â he murmured softly.
Lex made a tired little sound.
âJust want to sleep the rest of it offâŚâ Lex muttered.
Inside the bed, Soren held him through every miserable minute while the medicine slowly, slowly tried to catch up to the storm raging through Lexâs nervous system.
Acknowledging that someone doesn't feel good is nice but acknowledging that it's specifically the character's stomach that doesnât feel good >
part 2
Okay onto the dialogue prompts
(As always not realistic these just neat to me, feel free to use/change wording ect)
(Also I meant to go in a different direction but half the list got deleted and I had to redo it.)
A
"You're stomach isn't feeling well is it?"
"It must be really churning."
"I know your tummy doesn't respond well to nerves but...."
"Your poor tummy really isn't feeling great is it?"
"Sorry your belly isn't doing good."
"I know you stomach is in knots but you should try eat/drink something."
"Is your stomach still churning?"
"I don't think your stomach is handling the news all too well."
(Best with context of character having frequent tummy issues/sensitive stomach ect) "Your stomach is never a bother for me."
âYou should change into something loose to keep the pressure off your belly.â
âI think I know why your stomach is gurgling so much, the sauce from dinner had (insert ingredient) in it.â
âIf the smell of my perfume is bothering your stomach too much I can change.â
âWhat did you eat to upset it so bad?â
âYou know Iâve heard that cuddles are the best cure for a turning tummy.â
âWhatâs troubling your belly so much?â
âI didnât think that (insert food/smell/news/who knows) would make your stomach have such a bad reaction.â
âWhy didnât you say anything sooner about your belly feeling so sick?â
âAre you sure you just have butterflies in your tum and not something worse?â
âMaybe your stomach would feel better if it was churning more than just stomach acid around.â
âIâm sorry I didnât know that (insert food) would hurt your tummy so badly.â
âDoes your tummy always get this knotted frequently?â
âItâs no surprise you need to throw up, stress/nerves always goes to your stomach.â
âAnyoneâs stomach would feel icky after (insert what ever) donât feel bad about it.â
âI donât mind looking after you or your poor belly.â
âI donât think even medicine can help your stomach, it would be better be sick and get it over withâ (better if they donât feel better after being sick)
âholding it in will just make your belly feel worse.â
(While placing hand on sickie's stomach)
B
âFeels like something really bad is going on in here."
âEven I can feel how upset your tummy is."
âI think I just felt your whole stomach flip."
âYour tummy feels really gurgly, I honestly think you will throw up soon.â
âI donât think Iâve ever felt a belly so sick before.â
âDid your stomach just flutter?â
âDinner is definitely not sitting to well in there.â
âYouâre not overreacting, itâs definitely churning.â
âYou sure you arenât going to puke, I can feel a lot of movement.â
âI can feel your heartbeat in your stomach, thatâs definitely not a good sign.â
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still kind of in a writing slump but i started working on this as a birthday present to myself.
meet some new characters, ophelia sage and veselko! they are pairs figure skaters.
if you have any requests, questions, comments, etc., send them my way!
tw for illness, emeto, fevers
The crowdâs roar thundered behind her like the break of an oceanâdistant, muted, too large to comprehend. Beneath the rink lights, sharp as a surgeonâs scalpel, Ophelia Sage held her final pose: one hand outstretched like a fallen angel reaching for absolution, the other locked with Veselkoâs in a spiral of barely-contained flame and ice.
She was still. So was he. The music had ended five seconds ago, but they both knew the stillness matteredâit was the final exclamation mark, the breath after the storm.
Then came the bow.
She curtsied with fluid grace, one leg behind the other. Veselko bowed beside her, tall and composed, his hand grazing the small of her back as they turned to leave the ice. His fingertips lingered a moment longer than they needed to.
Only thenâwhen the crowdâs applause had started to fadeâdid she allow the tremor to creep back into her limbs.
It had started subtly. A lurch of vertigo in the death spiral, the ice tilting sideways under her vision. A churning twist of her stomach as Veselko lifted her high overheadâan element theyâd trained to muscle memory, yet suddenly felt foreign, unmoored. His grip had pressed too tightly against her ribs, or maybe not tight enough. Everything was a blur edged in white.
But her face had never faltered. The cameras had captured her gleaming smile, her flushed cheeks, the fierce gleam in her eyes beneath the arena lights.
They stepped off the ice and onto the padded mat behind the rink boards. The moment her blades hit rubber, her breath hitched.
Ophelia Sage was freezing.
Not the theatrical kind. Not the âoh, itâs cold in the rinkâ kind that the audience chirped about online. This was bone-deep. Inside, her stomach folded in on itself, sharp and oily, like sheâd swallowed a mouthful of spoiled cream.
And stillâstillâshe smiled.
âClean,â she said, her voice not faltering. âLevel four twist, throw loop was perfect. We nailed that footwork sequence.â
Veselko didnât answer. Not yet.
He was watching her the way he always did when something was offâeyes flicking over the minute details. The slowness in her blink. The way her spine didnât fully straighten after the final lift. The line of her jaw, clenched too tight to be triumphant.
He didnât ask if she was alright. That wasnât how they worked. Instead, he reached for the jacket the attendant offered and helped her into it once she had her blade guards on. His hand brushed her wristâice-cold.
They walked toward the kiss and cry, where the cameras would be waiting. Where the world would be watching. And she would not break. Not yet.
She smiled as they sat. Poised, radiant, proud. Veselko sat closeâcloser than usualâone hand on her knee under the cameraâs line of sight, a silent grounding weight.
The scores began to roll in, but she didnât hear them. The arenaâs warmth suddenly felt miles away. Her stomach gave a sickening twist, and her breath caught in her throat.
Not here, she thought. Not in front of the world.
The poker face didnât so much as crack.
But Veselko leaned in, just enough that only she could hear him, his voice quiet as snowfall.
âOphelia Sage,â he murmured, Ukrainian accent thick as ever, his soft and low. âYouâre freezing.â
And under the lights, beneath the worldâs gaze, she didnât answer.
She didnât have to.
The scores had been goodâdamn good.
Second place, with a seasonâs best, just shy of the top two by less than a point. The crowd had roared again when their names appeared on the leaderboard, but Ophelia Sage hadnât flinched.
Theyâd done the whole circuit. The kiss and cry, the rinkside interviews, the small medals ceremony. Sheâd kept her coat zipped tightly around her costume the whole time, as much to hide the cold sweat soaking through the fabric as for modesty. She even cracked a joke during the press line, something about how they liked to âkeep it dramaticâ with their choreo.
Nobody saw anything but fire. They didnât see anything but Ophelia Sage.
And now, finally, the noise was behind them. The cameras were off. The glittering facade of competition lights and commentary had dimmed, replaced with the soft, echoing quiet of a service corridor that smelled faintly of Zamboni fuel and melted artificial snow.
They were aloneâjust the two of themâwalking toward the private car waiting at the back exit. Ophelia Sageâs steps were slower now, but not noticeably so. Her arms were crossed tight, hands tucked beneath the jacket sleeves. Her face was pale beneath the makeup, her braid slightly loosened at the nape of her neck from all the turns and throws.
She hadnât spoken in ten minutes. That was weird.
Veselko didnât push. He never did, not immediately. But his eyes followed her with clinical precision, with the kind of observation that could only come from hours of lifts and trust falls, from years of skating with someone who never admitted weakness unless cornered.
âAre you cold?â he asked gently, as he opened the back door of the car for her.
She paused for the briefest second. âNot really,â she said. Then, after a beat, âI think Iâm just tired.â
That was believable. Worlds were exhausting.
She slid into the seat without another word. He followed, closing the door softly behind him. The car was quiet, humming with heat, the windows fogging faintly from their body warmth against the cold night. The driver murmured something about traffic, then lapsed into silence.
For a moment, there was peace.
Then Ophelia Sage shifted. Just barely. One hand pressing to her stomach, subtle and slow. Her throat bobbed. She blinkedâonce, twice, three times in fast successionâand turned her face toward the window, as if watching the lights of Montreal blur past would steady her.
Veselko watched her from the corner of his eye. âYou sure youâre alright?â
Her response was late. âYeah. Just⌠give me a minute.â
But she didnât sound like Ophelia Sage anymore. Her voice had lost its sharpness, dulled to something watery, like she was trying to speak through a wave.
She took the lid off her water bottle, then clenched it in her lap, both hands wrapped around the metal like she could will it to cool the fire in her gut.
Another minute passed.
And thenâ
Her whole body jolted forward.
There was no warning, no gasp or groan, just a single, violent convulsion that yanked her shoulders forward and bent her at the waistâa surge of liquid heaving up from her gut with the force of something uncontainable.
The sound was sharp and wet and awful, echoing in the confined space of the car.
Ophelia Sage clutched the bottle tight to her lips, eyes wide, as the next wave followed immediatelyâher chest spasming, throat tightening, every muscle in her abdomen wrenching as another mouthful of bile and a half-digested protein bar forced its way out of her.
She didnât cry out. She didnât whimper. She made almost no noise at all, aside from the choked gurgle of each retch, the desperate swallow between waves, the soft click of her teeth as she clenched her jaw too tightly.
Veselkoâs entire body had gone still. Thenâhe moved.
He didnât speak. Just reached forward and pulled the hair back from her face, fingers gentle but firm, tucking her braid over one shoulder and keeping it clear. His other hand hovered near her back but didnât touch, not yet. Not until she gave some sign she wouldnât flinch from it.
Another surge hit. She leaned harder over the bottle, shoulders shuddering, this one louderâuglierâthe way it always got when there was nothing left in her stomach but her body kept trying anyway.
Her face was slick with sweat. Her skin had gone the color of wet parchment.
âNot. A. Word.â Ophelia found herself growling softly.
-
That night, Ophelia Sage didnât sleep.
She tried. Sheâd showered off the lingering sweat and glitter of the short program, changed into soft cotton pajamas, braided her hair back, taken two sips of lukewarm tea, and crawled into bed with her hotel room dimmed to a golden glow.
But the minute she lay still, her stomach roiled.
Not in a gentle way. Not nausea. This was pressure that came in waves until it had no choice but to break. Her gut gurgled and clenched in the dark, then twisted hard enough to make her sit bolt upright, clutching her abdomen like something inside her was trying to crawl out.
She barely made it to the bathroom in time.
Her knees hit tile, and she yanked the toilet lid up in one brutal motion. The vomiting was loudâraw, guttural, soaked in bile and bitterness and that awful sour taste of electrolyte drink and regret. Her body convulsed in violent, heaving waves, over and over until she was left panting over the bowl, trembling.
And still, she didnât cry.
No tears. No pleas. Just shaky hands rinsing her mouth and pressing a cool washcloth to her forehead as she curled against the bathroom wall, forehead resting on her knees, waiting for the next round to start.
It came an hour later.
And again after that.
Once, she tried to eatâhalf a bagel with peanut butter, forced down bite by bite. It gave her maybe twenty minutes of fragile calm before she was hunched over the toilet again, her stomach punishing her for trying.
At some point, sheâd stopped bothering with the bed entirely. She made a nest of towels and a blanket on the bathroom floor, pressed her cheek against the chilled tile, and told herself, âYouâre still skating. Youâre still skating.â
Because withdrawing wasnât even a concept she entertained. Not at Worlds. Not when sheâd fought tooth and nail to earn her spot, not when she and Veselko had clawed their way to the top two with blood and fire and trust.
Sheâd skated through heartbreak before. Through sprained ribs and public scandal. A stomach bug was nothing.
This was nothing.
-
The world felt too loud. The fluorescent lights in the off-ice practice space buzzed overhead with a sterile hum, and Ophelia Sage stood in front of the wall-length mirror with a resistance band looped around her arms, hair pulled tight in a bun, warmup jacket zipped halfway.
She looked flawless.
But Veselko had learned not to trust appearances.
He stood behind her, mirroring her movements as they worked through the arm mechanics of their triple twist, the motion repetitive, meditativeânormally. But today her arms were too tight. Her timing half a beat off. When his hands grazed her waist to mimic the lift motion, she went rigid.
Not visibly. Not enough that any coach or camera would catch it. But he felt itâin his hands. The moment of contact where her stomach tensed like a live wire beneath his fingers. Where she almost imperceptibly shifted her weight away, just slightly, and then corrected.
She was sick.
Still.
âAgain,â she said, eyes locked on their reflection.
He didnât move.
âOphelia Sage.â
She didnât look at him. Her voice was firm, controlled. âWe need to go over the rotation on the throw. If we donât get the axis rightââ
âI felt you flinch.â
That caught her. Not the word itself. The toneâquiet, even, but wrapped in steel. Veselko didnât interrupt unless it mattered.
She turned, eyes burning, cheeks pale under her warming blush. âIâm not flinching. Iâm nauseous. Thereâs a difference.â
He stared at her for a moment, unreadable. His hand hovered near her elbow. âThen let me ask plainly. Can you do this program today?â
âI have to.â
âThatâs not what I asked.â
Something flickered in her face. Not shame. Not guilt. Rageâat the weakness of her body, at the betrayal of her own gut, at him for suggesting that she couldnât.
âDonât drop me,â she snapped. âAnd I wonât fall.â
-
The arena had never felt so silent.
Thousands of people watching, and yet when their names were called, when the opening notes of their music beganâOphelia Sage heard nothing but the sound of her own breath. Shallow. Intentional. Controlled.
Every nerve in her body was coiled like wire beneath her costume, stretched taut across ribs that still ached from vomiting, skin clammy despite the rinkâs chill. Her makeup had been redone, carefully. Her hair slicked back into an uncompromising bun. Her eyes were fever-bright under the lights.
She looked like a goddess carved from flame.
She stood at Veselkoâs side, hand in his. He gave it a light squeeze. She didnât look at him.
Then the music roseâand so did they.
The first element. Fast. Dynamic. A signature triple twist.
Veselko launched her into the air, and for a split second she was airborne, spinning above the ice like she belonged in another atmosphere entirely.
Tight. So tight.
She didnât allow a single limb to falter. Not because of perfectionism, which she had plenty of on a good day, but because she had to. If her core so much as loosened, sheâd feel that grotesque lurch in her stomach again. She couldnât afford that. Not here.
Veselko caught her clean. Her blades hit the ice in tandem.
The crowd roared.
Veselkoâs hands gripped her waist. Normally, she welcomed the pressure, the trust of flight. But nowâit was agony. The pressure on her abdomen made her insides twist like a knife had been buried just beneath her ribs.
She masked it.
Her smile turned sharper, her limbs more dramatic. If her stomach was revolting, then fine. Sheâd turn it into fury. Into art.
Above the ice, supported only by Veselkoâs strength and her own locked posture, her body was the picture of elegance.
He felt it.
Her muscles werenât soft. They were rigid. Not with strengthâwith self-preservation.
By the midpoint of the program, she was breathing harder. Not from exertionâher cardio was flawless. This was something else. Her stomach gurgled and lurched with every deep breath. Her mouth had dried, the taste of acid clinging to the back of her throat.
Still, her footwork was immaculate. The cleanest theyâd ever done. Every edge cut like a scalpel. Every turn was deliberate and surgical.
Keep it together.
One more minute. One more lift. One more breath.
She skated backward into his hands, feeling the centrifugal pull as he helped launch her into the air. The spinâthree rotations, cleanâwas perfect.
But the landingâŚ
Her blade hit the ice, and her gut turned. It felt like all her organs had suddenly shifted sideways, a molten nausea that rose up with alarming speed. For half a second, she thought she was going to throw up right there on the landing.
She clenched her jaw so tight her teeth ached.
And she kept going.
She dipped low, spinning outward from his hand, her head inches from the ice, the force pressing every ounce of blood to her skull. The world twisted and spun, and her vision pinwheeled with it.
She was cold. Inside and out. Icy sweat clung to the back of her neck. Her stomach gave a low, bubbling churn.
But she held the position. Perfect edge. Graceful exit.
The music swelled. The final pose hit like thunder.
Ophelia Sageâs arms rose with the final crescendo. Her chest heaved. Her eyes glittered.
The crowd exploded.
They had done it.
They stood frozen in that final pose for a second too long.
Then Ophelia Sage staggeredâjust slightly. Enough that Veselkoâs hand snapped around her waist, steadying her like it was part of the choreography.
She didnât speak.
Couldnât.
Her head tilted forward, shoulders tensing.
Her body jerked onceâa silent, ugly heave.
It didnât produce anything. But it hit her, hard enough to nearly double her over.
Veselko stepped in front of her instantly, blocking the sight from the cameras. His arms wrapped around her shoulders, guiding her into him as though it were just part of their celebration. He braced his hand to the back of her head.
No one could see her face but him.
And what he saw wrecked him.
Ophelia Sageâusually all fire and prideâwas clinging to his top with shaky hands. Her breath hitched, rattling, and she dry heaved again, barely managing to turn her face into his chest to muffle the sound.
âIâm okay,â she snapped, though her lips barely moved. âI justââ
Another heave cut her off.
âYou donât have to be okay,â he whispered into her hair. âYou just have to let me walk you off.â
He felt her nod. Felt her body lean into his. Not collapse. Not surrender. Justârely, for one brief moment, without shame.
They left the ice like that. Not hand-in-hand. Not posing. The crowd kept cheering.
The cameras followed them.
Of course they did.
Ophelia Sage walked like nothing was wrong, back straight, eyes glittering with adrenaline, chin high. She was radiant. Unshaken. Invincible.
But Veselko stayed close.
Closer than usual. His hand never left her backâjust between her shoulder blades, palm flat, thumb tracing slow, grounding circles that no one but her would feel. Not choreography. Not performative. Just presence.
She didnât shake him off.
They sat.
Ophelia Sage curled her legs delicately beside Veselko on the padded bench, back arched in poise, a practiced picture of glamour and effortlessness. Her hair, though slick with sweat at the temples, still glimmered under the lights. Her makeup had only just begun to give way at the edges.
She looked like every sports magazineâs dream.
She felt like she was dying.
Her stomach was a pit of molten, sour heat. She could feel the churn beginning to crest again, the bile rising slow and steady like floodwaters against a dam. Her hands trembled subtly, just enough to make her ring catch the light as she passed Veselko a tissue.
He took it without hesitation, dabbing at his brow, then tucking it into his sleeve. His hand returned to her back, now lower, tracing just above the line of her skirt. She shifted closer to himânot dramatically, but enough to hide the way she leaned against him for stability.
Without a word, he pulled a water bottle from his bag and handed it to her.
âI forgot to give you this earlier,â He said softly.
It was new. Not just unopenedânew. Her favorite color. Sleek, clean, matte plum like her dress, her favorite color, with a sticker of their federation logo heâd probably peeled off something else.
Her eyes flicked to him, briefly, surprise hidden under practiced performance.
She took it. Unscrewed the lid with careful, deliberate fingers. Sipped.
It helped. For half a second.
Then the nausea surged up her throat like a riptide.
She smiled. On camera. At the scoreboard.
Veselko saw the exact moment it hit herâhow her posture went too still. How her shoulders locked. How her breathing shortened, shallow and sharp, her grip tightening around the bottle until her knuckles paled.
He didnât say anything.
Just leaned in, his mouth close to her ear.
âCome with me.â
She nodded. Once. Tiny. Enough.
Then he turned to the coaches, calm as ever. âIâm not feeling great,â he said. âHeadache. Mightâve overheated. I need a moment.â
One of them offered a quick nod, already focused on the next team preparing to skate.
And with that, Veselko stood, hand out.
Ophelia Sage took it. Her fingers were cold. Not from the rinkâfrom what was coming.
They walked off-camera like pros, no falter in their step. No stumble. No visible collapse.
The moment the curtain blocked them from view, she stumbled.
Veselko caught her before she hit the wall, one arm around her back, the other bracing under her elbow.
âBathroom,â she gasped. âOrâtrashâanythingââ
He moved fast, guiding her toward a backstage hallway where staff bins and janitorial closets were tucked out of sight. There was a waste bin tucked against the wallâlined, clean enough. He turned her toward it just in time.
The first heave was dry, her body already exhausted from the night before. But thenâsomething gave. Her stomach clenched so violently it nearly folded her in half, and a gush of half-digested electrolyte fluid and stomach acid poured from her lips into the bin.
It was loud. Messy. Wracking.
She braced her hands on either side of the can, fingers shaking. Her breath tore from her throat in sobbing pants between waves, but she didnât cry. Not from emotion. Just from effort.
Veselko stood behind her, not hesitating for a second. He gathered her hair again, brushing back the strands that fell out of her braid before bracing her by the shoulder, the other on her back, rubbing slow, firm circles.
She gagged again. Liquid and bitter, more than she shouldâve had left in her.
âI thought it was empty,â she choked, mouth still hovering above the rim. âI thoughtâI didnât eatâhow the hellââ
A gurgle in her throat, a thick wave poured out of her.
âShh,â he murmured. âShh. Youâre alright. Itâs alright.â
She shook her head, spat into the bin, coughed hard.
âNo. Itâs not. I canâtââ
âYou did. You already did.â
That quiet gravity again. His voice didnât tremble. He didnât flinch.
Another wave hit. Her body lurched forward with a sharp cry of pain, like her ribs were being pulled inward.
And stillâhe stayed.
One hand gripping her upper arm, grounding. One hand still stroking between her shoulder blades. Standing behind her.
When she finally slumped back against him, shaking and empty, he caught her gently and pulled her into his chest, cradling her like he was afraid sheâd disappear.
âYou bought me a new bottle.â
He wanted to laugh. That was what she was focused on? Of all the things?
âI didnât want you to remember yesterday every time you looked at the old one.â He shrugged.
A beat.
âThatâs so fucking thoughtful,â she croaked. âI hate it.â
She didnât. They knew she didnât.
âI know.â Veselko offered a smile, âyou good now?â
âI donât think good is the word,â Ophelia Sage sighed. âBut we really should get back out there.â
But his hand was still in her hair, still brushing it back, his forehead resting lightly against hers as he whispered, âIâve got you. Youâre done. Itâs over. You did it.â
And in the dark, backstage and unseen, Ophelia Sage finally let herself be held.
I would die for Ophelia Sage (I LOVE her name) and Veselko. They seem so interesting. Also I feel like figure skating as a whole has died off in the sickfic/whump community (Iâve been lurking the blr since yuri on ice was a big thing). Iâm so interested in them! I would love to see another fic with them, maybe we can see Veselko sick? I want to see how Ophelia Sage reacts and how he is as a sickie. Emeto is my favorite niche but whatever fits for them/him! Take your time and much love! x -â¸ď¸
hi nonny!
i love veselko and ophelia sage too! it's also nice to take a break from my main things (lex and soren, novak, etc.). also, i love her name too! i think its so pretty together. plus veselko's name too. i love names, but especially theirs.
*additional note: veselko calls ophelia sage 'kolyĂşchyi drĂt' (ukrainian for 'barbed wire') as a term of endearment (ophelia sage would probably kill him if he called her any traditional term of endearment)
if you have any further requests/comments/questions, etc., send it my way! i really do want to get back into writing so im saying my ask box is just WAITING for more stuff to do.
tw emeto, fever, overexertion
The rink was cold this morning.
Not the usual kind of coldâthe crisp, familiar chill that settled in your bones until the movement warmed it outâbut a gnawing sort, sharp around the edges and curling in Veselkoâs stomach like ice water. It had started hours ago, long before their session. At first, it was just a sense of unease, something easily ignored: the faint nausea that chased him from sleep to morning tea, a lingering ache behind his eyes. Nothing new. Athletes trained through worse.
He hadnât told Ophelia Sage, of course. She wouldâve noticed, eventuallyâshe always didâbut this morning, heâd been careful. Stiff smile. Strong tea. Extra layers. No one needed to know his hands trembled when he laced his boots or that heâd spent ten minutes in the locker room breathing through clenched teeth, eyes locked on the wall like that alone might steady the queasiness rising in his chest.
His throat still burned faintly from gagging. He hadnât vomitedânot fullyâbut the heaving had left him pale and winded, slouched over the sink with sweat clinging to his hairline despite the chill.
Now, on the ice, Veselko moved like clockwork. Precision was armor. If he skated with enough control, maybe his body would remember it belonged to him.
The rinkâs fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. He blinked harder than necessary, trying to clear the fog gathering at the corners of his vision. Headache, dull and building, pulsed behind his eyes, creeping slow and merciless like a tide coming in. Every soundâblade scrape, music echo, Ophelia Sageâs sharper movements as she warmed up nearbyâfelt slightly too loud, pricking at his nerves. He swallowed against a rising wave of nausea, jaw tightening. Not now.
They were running lifts today.
Heâd been dreading it since they arrived. His limbs felt heavier than they shouldâve, like they belonged to someone elseâa stranger trying to mimic control. When he caught Ophelia by the waist and lifted her clean over his head, the familiar strain of muscle felt⌠wrong. Not painful, just unstable. Like the effort cost more than it should.
âAgain?â she asked, already sliding back into position.
He nodded, too quickly. A breath caught sharp in his throat. âOf course, kolyĂşchyi drĂt.â
Pride was a powerful drug. He knew how to ration himself: a sip of water between passes, a breath stolen behind turned shoulders, fingers pressed into his own forearm until the vertigo dulled. Donât fall. Donât show it. Donât give the coaches a reason to pull you.
Ophelia Sage didnât look at him too closelyânot yet. He heard her scoff, caught a sarcastic smile, and then she was off. She was fiery this morning, focused, her own sharpness unsoftened by distraction. Good. He could coast on her fire a while longer, let her intensity hide the paleness creeping into his features.
But his stomach twisted again, low and insistent. Not panic. Not nerves. This was different. Familiar, even. Well, familiar used loosely. A stomach virus had torn through his training group once in Kyiv when he was thirteenâhalf the rink taken out by it, coaches yelling over buckets and disinfectant. He remembered how it started.
And this⌠this felt the same. At least, he assumed. It'd been ten years now and he couldn't remember a time anywhere near recent where he felt this bad. So, really, it was guess work.
Still, he didnât stop. Not yet. Maybe it was anxiety, that wasn't new. Bad food at dinner, maybe. He wasn't going to panic. Not yet, he didn't need to.
Veselkoâs fingers trembled when they closed around Ophelia Sageâs waist.
Not enough to drop her. Not enough for anyone watching to gasp. But he felt itâlike the current of something wrong running beneath the surface of still water. She was light, as always, coiled strength and grace, the familiar shape of her body rising clean above him. But his balance wavered for a heartbeat longer than it shouldâve, the torque of the lift pulling at his shoulders in a way that made his vision edge toward white.
She landed clean. Didnât say anything.
But when she glided backward, fixing her ponytail with that irritated twist she always did when her hair was too stiff from hairspray or if someone was on her nervesâ Veselko was sure he was too close to the end of them, he usually wasâ she cast him a sidelong glance. Just long enough.
He wiped his palms on his pants. They were damp.
âLetâs switch it up,â she said, breezy, like it didnât matter. âYouâre tight in the shoulders today. Maybe jumps instead. for a bitâ
Veselko nodded too fast, too eager. Grateful. And ashamed of that gratitude.
He knew why she changed it. She was giving him space without saying so. That was her wayâsharp-tongued when she was ill, but oddly kind when he faltered. She didn't look at him like he was weak. She didnât coddle. She just⌠moved the obstacle.
And yet somehow, it cut deeper.
Because she hadnât seen the truth. Not yet. And he was trying too hard to keep it that way.
The jump drills were a different kind of torment. Less trust, more precision. Just him and his own body, again and again, slicing across the ice in practiced patterns, arms whipping, knees bending, legs absorbing impact that vibrated through the hollowness in his core. He was too warm nowâsweat prickling under his layers, shirt sticking damp across his back. But his fingers were cold. The paradox didnât escape him. He flexed his hands between passes, pressing them hard to his thighs to hide the trembling.
The nausea was relentless now. It rode beneath every movement like a second rhythm, rising each time he spun too quickly, fell too hard, bent too low. His stomach curled with every landing. His breath hitched once, twice, and he swore she noticedâbut when he turned his face away, she was adjusting her gloves.
A cramp rolled low in his gut, hot and mean, and for one heart-hammering second, he thought he might vomit on the ice.
He stopped short. One blade skidded out of alignment.
âReset,â Ophelia Sage called out. âYouâre off your axis.â
Iâm off everything, he thought.
She wasn't being mean, actually. Veselko knew that. Sure, it looked like it. But there was a reason he called her kolyĂşchyi drĂt. She was sharp edged, fierce, unyielding, and yet in some way he found she often gravitated toward protection more than hostility. No less sharp, but differently. So, Veselko just nodded. Again. Swallowed hard.
The ice blurred a little around the edges. His headache had bloomed into something monstrous now, a pressure that throbbed at his temples and behind his eyes, like his skull was too small for the ache inside. His legs felt sluggish. His arms ached with that strange, flu-like hollowness that didnât belong to tired muscles, but to something deeperâfevered, inflamed, wrong.
And through all of it, the shame pulsed louder than anything else.
Heâd trained through worse. Heâd been taught to. A skater was only as good as their worst dayâand this? This couldnât be his worst. Not in front of her.
So he didnât stop. Didnât say a word.
But when he moved into the next combinationâhis signature jump, the one he never faltered onâhis blade hit the ice a half-second too early. His body jolted. The landing jarred his already-upset stomach. He wobbled, caught himself, and for the first time that morning, he bent at the waist when he came to a stop, palms braced on his knees, breath coming short.
Just a moment. Just long enough to get it under control.
Behind him, Ophelia Sageâs voice rang outânot angry, not suspicious. Just sharp with direction.
âGet water. You look like hell.â
He straightened. Too fast. The ice wavered under him.
He nodded. Didnât meet her eyes.
The water felt like it hit a pit of coals in his stomach.
Veselko had followed her commandâbecause thatâs what it was, even if it came disguised as a casual observation. You look like hell. And he had. Even he couldnât lie to his reflection in the plexiglass that lined the rinkâs edge. His cheeks had taken on that pale, bluish cast that came with cold sweat, and his eyes looked too bright, too glassy. He had rinsed his face in the sink with shaking fingers, letting the cold water slap across his skin like penance. The nausea stayed. The headache pulsed. But when he returned to the ice, she didnât say anything.
Ophelia Sage didnât coddle. She didnât coo or fuss or lower her voice.
Instead, she met him with a clipped nod and her usual, infuriating precision. âLetâs run the spiral sequence.â
It wasnât kindnessâit was mercy. She was giving him movements that required grace, not strength. Flow, not flight.
And Veselko, half-hollowed by his own body and bursting with silent gratitude, gave her his best.
But his best was deteriorating. Every stroke across the ice left him more winded than the last. The spirals should have felt like flightâshould have reminded him of air and poetry, all blade-edge poetryâbut instead they felt like he was being dragged through molasses, his limbs lagging a beat behind his brain.
The protein bar had been a mistake. Heâd eaten it because he had toâroutine demanded it. Fuel before the next round. But now it sat like a stone in his gut, every minute drawing up a tighter knot in his abdomen. His breath caught on it, shallow and quick, and he couldn't skate fast enough to outrun the rolling sickness crawling up his throat.
Still, he said nothing. Always nothing.
He finished the spiral sequence with a wobble on the last edge. Ophelia Sage stopped short, one arm folded, watching him like she was trying to solve a puzzle with jagged pieces.
âYouâre off today,â she said, not unkindly.
âHow flattering of you to notice, kolyĂşchyi drĂt.â
"It wasn't a cmpliment." Ophelia Sage rolled her eyes.
"I'm flattered, but I'm fine." It came too quickly, too flat. Reflex, not truth.
Her brows rose. âI didnât say you werenât.â
He forced himself to glide backward, pretending it was a deliberate cool-down instead of a collapse in disguise. âThen letâs run the side-by-side.â
âNo,â she said flatly. âItâs lunch.â
He looked at the clock. Hadnât realized how long theyâd been going.
âIâm not hungry,â he murmured.
She was already skating off, her voice trailing over her shoulder. âI didnât say it was your lunch. Itâs mine.â
-
The locker room was mercifully empty.
Veselko hadnât even bothered to untie his skatesâjust sat, hunched forward on the bench, his palms braced on his thighs, cold sweat gathering in the hollow of his back. He thought if he stayed still, if he just breathed through it, it would pass. It had to pass.
But his body was no longer interested in his pride.
The nausea crested with a vicious twist, and he lunged for the nearest trash bin.
His body wrenched forward as he vomitedâonce, then againâhis stomach clenching violently around the little it held. The protein bar came up in pieces, sharp with bile, burning his throat. He gagged even after he was empty, tears stinging the corners of his eyes, his ribs aching from the force of it. Cold sweat matted messy blond bangs to his forehead. His arms trembled where they braced against the locker. The silence afterward felt almost cruel.
He hadnât thrown up in years. Not from illness. Not like this.
His first instinct was to clean up. To hide it. To wipe away the shame before anyone could see.
But his hands were shaking too badly to stand just yet.
And for the first time that day, he let his head fall into his arms and closed his eyes.
Just for a moment.
Veselko returned to the ice like a ghost of himself.
He had rinsed his mouth three times. Washed his face until the cold water made his skin burn. Changed his shirtâthough it clung damp to his spine within minutesâand reapplied a weak sort of composure that might have passed if someone didnât look too hard.
Ophelia Sage didnât look too hard. Not yet.
She had taken up residence at the edge of the rink, chewing on a piece of dried mango from her lunch bag with all the elegance of a starving wolf. She offered him a glanceânot questioning, just measuring. She was used to his disappearances by now. Veselko, with all his quiet spirals and disappearing acts. Veselko, who sometimes needed ten minutes in the locker room to remember he existed outside the anxious knot in his chest.
So when he returnedâtight-lipped, a little pale, but uprightâshe just popped another slice of mango in her mouth and said, âYou missed my best run-through.â
âI regret it already,â he murmured.
âLiar.â
But her tone was light, almost fond. A truce offered on the ice. He took it.
Coach Bennett returned just as they finished warming back up. A blur of a woman in track pants and windburned cheeks, with a voice that could cut steel.
âAll right, enough dancing. Time for lifts. Youâve got regionals in three weeks, and that carry press looked like a hot pile of dogâwell, you know what it looked like.â
Ophelia Sage groaned under her breath. âCanât wait to be immortalized in slow-motion collapse.â
Veselko didnât speak.
He nodded.
Because of course they had to do lifts. Because saying no, even now, even like this, felt like treason against every inch of ice that had ever scarred his blades.
He flexed his hands, testing the steadiness. They still trembled faintly, but he could work through it. Mind over body. Heâd done it before. He just needed to push through the fog in his head and the ghost of bile still burning his throat.
The first lift was successful.
Shakyâbut not visibly so. Ophelia Sage went up and came down without incident. Her balance was steady, arms poised like a war goddess, and her trust in himâthough never spoken aloudâburned in the way she held herself still as stone when his hands closed around her waist.
The second went better. Almost crisp. Almost enough to fool him into thinking he was past the worst of it.
He dared a sip of water between reps. Just a sip. He didn't notice how it sloshed wrong in his stomach, setting off the first faint churn.
The third lift was a disaster waiting to happen.
It began with confidenceâan illusion born from repetition. He positioned her, hands at her waist, one knee bent in preparation. She met his eyes for just a second. A silent ready.
And thenâ
He lifted.
But his core didnât respond the way it should. His legs werenât solid. The room tilted imperceptiblyâjust a fractionâbut his body noticed. His stomach lurched violently, bile licking the back of his throat.
And suddenly, Ophelia Sage wasnât weightless.
She was too much. Not her faultânever her faultâbut his grip faltered. His left hand slipped fractionally. Her momentum shifted midair.
She gaspedâsharp, breathlessâbut didnât scream. She twisted instinctively, mid-lift, repositioning her weight, and he just managed to catch her before she hit the ice. It wasnât elegant. Her blade nicked his shin, just barely avoiding drawing blood. Their skates tangled. She landed half on her feet, half in his arms, her hair flying loose from its tie, and the silence that followed was deafening.
âJesus,â Coach barked from the other side of the rink.
Ophelia Sage pulled away from him, heart racing. âWhat the hellâ?â
But Veselko was already gone.
He staggered from the lift, his legs barely responding, and shoved past the boards without explanation. His stomach revolted as his blades hit the mats, the sudden change in motion nearly tipping him. A second later, he reached the rinkside trash binâ
âand vomited, hard.
It was louder than it shouldâve been. Violent. No mistaking it now.
His whole body lurched forward with the force of it, one hand bracing on the rim of the bin, the other trembling at his side. What little was in him came up in heaves: water, bile, remnants of the protein bar heâd barely choked down. His hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat. His chest heaved, throat raw, the sharp scent of acid making his eyes water.
The rink fell utterly silent behind him.
No more hiding.
The retching wouldnât stop.
Even after his stomach had emptied itself entirelyâafter the second wave and the thirdâVeselko stayed bent over the rinkside trash bin, shuddering through dry heaves that clawed their way up from deep in his core. He didnât remember when he started shaking so hard. His hands were locked against the rim of the bin, white-knuckled and trembling, and sweat dripped from the ends of his hair, soaking into the collar of his shirt.
It felt like his body was unraveling in layers. First the nausea. Then the dizziness. Then the aching heat in his back and shoulders, radiating down to his legs in slow, pulsing waves. Everything inside him twisted and burned. His ribs ached from retching, his eyes watered uncontrollably, and the cold air of the rink hit the back of his throat like needles.
He barely registered the sound of skates against the boards.
âDammit.â
That voiceâflat, low, not uncertain but edged with something⌠different. Not sharp. Not casual. Something quieter. Measured.
Ophelia Sage.
He didnât turn. Couldnât.
Instead, he braced a hand on the wall beside the bin, dragging in a shuddering breath. It hitched halfway down. His body curled in on itself, and he retched again, dry this time, acid and air and pain.
She didnât speak again right away.
He hated that she was seeing him like this. Not just sickâsick. Drenched in sweat, throat raw, barely upright. Humiliation settled over him like frost.
âIâm sorry,â he rasped, the words catching, thin and broken.
âFor what?â Her tone was unreadable.
âIâI should have saidââ
âShut up.â Still flat. Not cruel. Not even annoyed. Just immediate.
Veselko flinched, but didnât argue.
Behind him, her skates clicked onto the rubber mat. He heard her step closer. Not too close. She wasnât the type to hover. But she was there, and that meant more than anything else she couldâve done.
She exhaled slowly, like she was trying to wring the heat out of her own body.
âYou look like hell,â she muttered.
âI am hell,â he whispered back, trying for humor. It came out hoarse and hollow.
âYeah,â she said, voice low. âBut Iâve seen hell with better balance.â
A ghost of a smile twitched at his lips, too weak to hold.
The silence stretched. Veselko finally reached for a crumpled paper towel someone had mercifully left on the table beside the bench. He wiped his mouth, tried to stand straighterâand immediately regretted it.
The world pitched sideways.
He lurched against the wall with a quiet, bitten-off noise, one hand shooting out to catch himself.
âWhoa.â Ophelia Sage moved faster than heâd ever seen her move outside a performance. One hand caught his armâlight, but grounding.
He froze at her touch. He wasnât used to it. Not like this. Not when he was like this.
She seemed to realize it too, because she pulled back. Not completely. Just enough to let him stand on his own if he insisted. But she stayed close.
âSit down,â she said after a moment, voice still not rising. Still careful.
âIâm fineââ
She gave him a look that could have stopped a freight train.
âYou threw up in the middle of training. You almost dropped me. Youâre shaking so hard I can hear your laces rattling.â A beat. âAnd, also, you almost dropped me. Sit your ass down.â
And this time, he obeyed.
He sank onto the bench beside the wall, pressing the backs of his hands to his eyes. His stomach still ached, rolling low and persistent, and his limbs had taken on that flu-heavy weight that felt like someone had poured wet sand into his muscles. His sweat-soaked shirt clung to his back. Every breath felt hot and too shallow.
Ophelia Sage was on her knees in front of him, untying his laces before he could even get to them himself. Her slim fingers worked quickly to detangle the knots before she stood and went to his bag, grabbing Veselko's sneakers.
"I am not taking those off your feet," Ophelia Sage said, "That's on you. One of us puking is enough."
She untied her own laces, put her own shoes on, started gathering her things before Veselko could even get his own street shoes on.
âYou donât get sick much, do you?â Ophelia Sage said, grabbing his things now. How the hell did she move so fast?
He shook his head, slow, careful. âNot like this.â
âI figured.â Her voice had that clipped, analytical rhythm it always did when she was focused. âYou hide everything else. Illness wouldnât be any different.â
That made him look at her, just a little.
âYouâre not mad?â
She looked over at him, finally. Her eyes werenât cold. They werenât warm either. But they were honest.
âI should be. Youâre an idiot for pushing that far. You couldâve gotten us both hurt.â
He swallowed hard. That shame again.
âButâŚâ Her voice softened. Not in tone, but in weight. Like she was choosing her next words very, very carefully. âYouâre not just my skating partner. Youâre Veselko. And something was wrong. I knew it. I just thought you'd have the guts to tell me yourself... but evidently you lost those in that poor trash can.â
He closed his eyes, head dropping back against the wall behind him. The ice felt very far away now.
âCoach saw,â he said. âEveryone saw.â
âGood.â She shrugged. âNow you donât have to pretend youâre invincible anymore.â
He let out a weak breathâhalf a laugh, half a sigh. His stomach cramped again, and he pressed an arm to it, trying not to show it.
Ophelia Sage saw anyway.
âIâm calling it,â she said. âPractice is over.â
âYou donât have toââ
âI do,â she cut in. âBecause Iâm not getting dropped. Because youâre burning up. And because if I donât drag you out of here now, youâll skate until you collapse. And Iâm not scraping your dramatic ass off the ice.â
She stood. Offered him a hand.
He hesitated. Looked at it.
âTake the damn hand, Veselko.â
So he did.
-
Ophelia Sage didnât give him a choice.
She didnât ask if he wanted to go homeâshe simply told him he was going, and that heâd be going with her, because, quote, âIf I leave you alone, youâll crawl back onto the ice like some kind of frostbitten idiot and die dramatically in the middle of a spin.â
Veselko didnât argue.
He couldnât.
His legs barely held him upright on the way out. He leaned on her more than he wanted to admitânot completely, never thatâbut just enough for her to feel the tremble in his frame, the way his balance shifted unnaturally with every step. By the time they made it to her car, his skin was clammy, pale and sheened with cold sweat, and the headache had bloomed into something monstrous behind his eyesâfull-body pain, nausea wrapped in static. It felt like his brain was swelling against his skull, a migraine built not just on dehydration or exhaustion, but fever, illness, and betrayal. His body was failing him, and he couldnât think clearly through the white-hot fog that had settled over his senses.
The drive was quiet.
The world outside the window blurred in and out of focus. Veselko pressed his forehead to the cool glass, eyes closed. Every bump in the road jarred through his bones, and his stomach roiled with movement, twisting tighter every time the car turned. He was aware, distantly, of Ophelia Sage driving one-handed, her other hand alternating between drumming on the wheel and checking on him with sharp, sideways glances.
Not worried. Just⌠watching.
âIâm not pulling over for you to hurl,â she said eventually. âSo if thatâs happening, give me a damn warning.â
He made a low noiseâmightâve been a laugh. It sounded more like a whimper.
Her apartment was warm in a way Veselko wasnât used to. Cozy, but chaotic. Sharp edges hidden under thrown sweaters and forgotten mugs of tea, books stacked on every flat surface. The scent of cinnamon and cedar hung faint in the airâher perfume, maybe, or something herbal she used to relax when the world got too loud. Heâd never been here sick. Never been here weak.
Now he stumbled inside like a man twice his age, sagging against the wall the second she shut the door behind him.
âCouch,â she ordered. âNow.â
He obeyed, but not without effort. His body moved like it was underwater, each step pulled backward by invisible hands. When he collapsed onto the cushions, he let his head drop into his hands, elbows on knees, fighting the next wave of nausea that swelled the moment he sat down. His skin burned. His fingers felt too cold. He couldnât tell if he was freezing or feverish. Maybe both.
Ophelia Sage vanished into the kitchen without a word.
He heard cabinet doors slam. Something clattered into a bowl. The fridge opened and shut.
When she returned, she dumped a bottle of electrolyte water, a cool compress, and a half sleeve of saltines on the coffee table with a thunk.
âDonât puke on my couch,â she said, crouching in front of him.
He looked at her, trying to focus.
Her brows were drawn togetherânot in irritation, but in something closer to calculation. Her version of concern.
âYouâve got a fever,â she muttered, pressing the back of her hand to his forehead. âYouâre sweating through your shirt. You look like you got hit by a truck. When was the last time you were sick like this?â
He tried to sit up straighter. Mistake. His vision tilted, and his stomach flipped. He clapped a hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut.
âTrash binâs next to the couch. Use it.â
âHow long have youâ?â
âIâve been sick enough to know that look,â she said. âHeadache?â
He nodded faintly. âBad.â
âFever?â
He nodded again. She watched his fingers tremble.
âShaky, nauseous, canât stand, canât eatâwhy did you try to lift me?â
âBecause Coachââ
âBecause youâre an idiot.â
Silence.
And then, softer, âBecause youâre you.â
She handed him the cool compress without asking. He pressed it to the back of his neck and shivered violently.
The saltines went untouched. The water? He took a few sipsâtoo fast, because he was dizzy with thirstâand the second it hit his stomach, he went pale as ice.
She didnât wait this time.
She grabbed the bin and held it out just as his whole body convulsed.
He vomited violently, a sound that tore from somewhere low and helpless in his chest. Water, bile, nothing else. The kind of retching that pulled from the core, as if his body was trying to wring itself empty. He gasped between heaves, shaking all over, drenched in sweat, half-fallen forward against the couch.
And through it all, Ophelia Sage knelt beside him.
Not touching. Not panicked.
Just there.
She didnât flinch when he shook. She didnât scold. She stayed crouched by his side, one hand on the edge of the bin, the other holding a clean towel she hadnât even offered yet. She waited until he sagged back, lips parted and raw from bile, chest heaving.
Only then did she speak.
âYouâre not weak for being sick,â she said.
He blinked. It felt hard to focus.
âIâm sorry,â he whispered. âI didnât mean toââ
She reached forward and gently brushed the sweat-soaked hair from his face.
âNo more apologizing. Youâre sick. Thatâs all.â
Veselko blinked again, eyes glossed with fever and something elseâsomething warmer, too fragile to name.
âI hate this.â
âI know.â Her voice was quiet. âBut Iâd rather deal with this than watch you destroy yourself trying to hide it.â
He let his head fall against the back of the couch, skin too hot, throat raw, hands trembling.
âWhy are you being nice to me?â
She arched a brow. âYouâre pathetic right now.â
He smiled faintly.
She didnât.
âYouâre not just my partner, Veselko,â she said. âYouâre⌠youâre the only one I give a shit about. I donât even take care of myself like this.â
He turned his head slowly to look at her.
âI know,â he murmured. âThatâs why I call you kolyĂşchyi drĂt.â
She gave him a dry look. âBarbed wire. Yeah. Charming.â
âYou wrap around things to protect them. Even if it hurts.â
Ophelia Sage didnât answer.
But her hand hovered over his for a second. Then settled.
And she stayed with him, curled sharp and protective on the edge of the couch, a blade turned outwardâbut not at him.
Never at him.
-
The apartment had gone still.
Veselko had finally stopped vomiting, but it hadnât left him with reliefâjust a fragile, shaking emptiness. He was propped on the couch, fevered and flushed, pressed into the cushions like his bones had melted. The cool compress had been replaced twice. Heâd barely managed another sip of water without gagging. His body had declared open rebellion, and it was winning.
The ache in his head had spread like ink in waterâdown his spine, behind his eyes, into his jaw and limbs. Every noise felt louder. Every movement, distant. His skin buzzed with heat, but his fingers were still cold. He couldnât tell if he was freezing or burning anymore.
He hadnât said anything in a while.
And that, more than anything, made Ophelia Sage nervous.
He wasnât a talker by natureâbut silence like this? From him?
That wasnât pride. That wasnât discipline. That was pain.
She sat a few feet away in the armchair, legs pulled up under her, scrolling idly on her phone with the sound off. But she wasnât really reading anything. Her eyes flicked to him every ten seconds. Watching the rise and fall of his chest. Noting every shift, every wince, every slight furrow of his brow.
He was sick. Really sick. The kind of sick that didnât just flatten your bodyâit cracked something underneath.
And he was trying so hard not to let it show.
But she saw it anyway.
She always did.
He turned his head toward her eventually, sluggish, like every motion was a weight to drag.
âWhy are you still here?â he asked, voice rough, barely more than a whisper.
She didnât look up from her phone. âWhere the hell else would I be? It's my apartment.â
âI thought you didnâtââ he paused, swallowing hard, like the words themselves were too much. âDidnât like doing this.â
She tossed the phone onto the coffee table with a soft thud.
âI donât,â she said.
He blinked at her.
âThen whyââ
âBecause itâs you, dumbass.â
Her voice wasnât soft. But it was⌠different. Low. Steady. Not sharp.
She stared at him for a moment longer, her jaw ticking, her body visibly resisting whatever storm of instinct warred inside her. Then, almost without thinking, she stood up, crossed the small space between the armchair and the couchâ
âand sat beside him.
Close.
Closer than she had before.
She didnât say anything. Didnât ask. Didnât warn.
She just movedâlike it wasnât a conscious decision, but something her body had already decided.
And then, slowly, she reached out, slid an arm behind his shoulders, and pulled him toward her.
It wasnât romantic. It wasnât dramatic.
It was real.
And it cracked something inside him.
Veselko leaned into her without a word, heavy and half-limp with fever, cheek resting against her collarbone, his breath ragged with the effort it took not to cry from the sheer relief of not holding himself up anymore.
Her hand lightly brushed through sweat-soaked blond curls, detangling knots with such a gentle care that Veselko hardly noticed when she came across them. Since when was she so gentle?
âYou donât have to keep it together right now,â she murmured, almost too low to hear.
He didnât answer. But she felt him nod against her chest.
She stared forward, heart pounding like sheâd just landed a quad instead of held another person for the first time in years. Her grip tightened slightly around himâbarelyâbut he felt it.
OMG your last fic was awesome!! Good to see you back :) Would you be willing to write a pt 2? Seems like his sickness is a bad one that he hasn't felt in a long time (yanno those ones you remember that you never feel quite the same as you did before) I'd love to see him still not completely better, but a lot better than before, and then he pushes it a bit too much and comes out worse again eg prep right before a comp where he starts to feel off. I can just imagine his frustration because he's not use to it. Or ophelia being all here we go again. Thanks!!
part one is here, but this can be read as a standalone!
decided to rework the last part since.. i can?
decided to rework the previous fic just a tiny bit (switching a phrase in dialogue). for added whump/struggle factor i decided regionals was coming up sooner than i initially wrote (because i didn't expect anyone to send more requests as much as i was hoping for it)
if you have any more (please! send me all of them!) requests, comments, questions, etc., feel free to drop it in my ask box!
tw for emeto, fever, anxiety, overexertion, illness
It had been four days since Veselko last threw up.
That felt like a triumph.
His fever had broken sometime the night before lastâslowly, in waves, leaving him clammy and wrung out and starving by morning. Ophelia Sage stayed with him, much to her dismay he was sure.
His head still ached dully, but it was the kind of headache he knew how to function with. The kind heâd skated through before. He wasnât trembling anymore. He could stand without swaying. The nausea had dulled into something he could ignore if he breathed through it and didnât eat too much at once. She let him go home yesterday, things were getting back to normal.
To him, that meant one thing: it was time to train.
He arrived at the rink before Ophelia Sage that morning, just to prove to himself that he could. His breath steamed in the cold air as he laced his boots with steady hands, flexing his fingers every so often to reassure himself the strength had returned. His limbs still felt off, like they werenât quite syncing with his intentionsâbut he wrote that off as fatigue. Lingering exhaustion. Nothing new.
Nothing dangerous.
The ice greeted him with its familiar chill, crisp beneath his blades as he tested a few strokes alone. The echo of movement, the sound of his breath, the glide and resistance beneath his feetâit was like coming home to his body after days of betrayal.
He stretched. Spun slowly. Executed a small jump just to test the landing.
It was messy. A little off-center.
But he landed it.
So when Ophelia Sage stepped onto the ice and arched a brow in his direction, he was already moving toward her.
âYouâre early,â she said.
âSo are you.â
She snorted. âIâm always early.â
Veselko allowed a faint smile. He wasnât warm yet, but his muscles were loosening with motion. The stiffness was fading, the fog lifting.
âIâm ready,â he said quietly.
Her eyes narrowed. âYou sure?â
âYes.â
She didnât move for a moment. Thenâjust the smallest nod. âNo lifts. Coach already knows. I talked to her yesterday.â
Veselkoâs chest tightened, but he kept his expression smooth.
âIâm fine.â
âAnd Iâm not losing a tooth or getting a concussion because you think youâre invincible.â
He swallowed the flare of frustration. Not at her. At himselfâfor needing this argument at all. He didnât want to push her. But he wanted the routine back. The rhythm. The control.
âWeâre four days out,â he said. âRegionals isnât going to wait for me to coddle my recovery.â
She gave him a look. âYou threw up so hard I thought your soul was going to exit your body.â
âAnd now Iâm not.â
âThat doesnât meanââ
âI want to try,â he said, voice firmer now. âLet me try.â
That silenced her.
Not because heâd won the argument, but because she heard something else in his tone. Something brittle. Something afraid.
He wasnât saying it out of recklessness.
He was saying it because he needed to prove he still belonged out here.
After a long, breathless moment, she nodded once.
âWe try once. One lift. If itâs shaky, we stop.â
âAgreed.â
He didnât say thank you. She didnât expect it.
The lift wasnât perfect.
But it wasnât a disaster either.
Veselko gritted through the entire thingâhis palms slick inside his gloves, core tightening with strain, sweat prickling at the back of his neck even though they were barely five minutes into training. But she trusted him. She didnât hesitate as she launched upward, and he caught her with practiced hands, her momentum coiling into his arms like kinetic art.
It felt⌠good.
Not easy. Not right. But possible.
He held her, carried her, brought her down again.
His legs didnât buckle.
His breath came a little too fast when they broke apart, but he blamed adrenaline. He blamed excitement. He could almost taste the return of controlâlike ice water on a parched tongue.
Ophelia Sage skated back to him, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
âIâll tell Coach you didnât die,â she said.
âI appreciate the generosity.â
She tilted her head, gaze skimming over him with practiced accuracy.
âYouâre still pale.â
âIâm always pale.â
âYou look like you ran a marathon.â
He rolled his shoulders. âThatâs just the dramatic lighting.â
Her mouth twitched at the cornerâalmost a smile.
Almost.
They resumed training, cautious but steady, and for a little while, the illusion held.
He ran through step sequences, jumps, even a second liftâshorter this time, but clean. His limbs burned after each pass, but it felt like good pain. Necessary pain. The kind that meant he was back.
But even as the ice danced beneath him, Veselko couldnât shake the echo of fatigue buried beneath the performance. A strange, creeping sense that his body was letting him have this moment, not offering it freely.
Still, when practice ended, he didnât say a word.
And neither did she.
But as they walked toward the locker room, skates slung over one shoulder, he caught Ophelia Sage watching him again. Her eyes tracked the way he movedâjust a little slower than usual. The way his hand grazed the wall when they passed it. The way his chest rose too high on each breath, as if he was still searching for oxygen.
She didnât comment.
But she lingered in the hallway longer than necessary. Just for a second.
She knows.
-
The morning of regionals dawned too bright.
Veselko cracked open one eye against the stream of sun through the hotel window and immediately regretted it. His head achedânot the sharp, unmistakable spike of fever, but a dense pressure that pooled at the base of his skull and curled behind his eyes like smoke. His limbs felt heavy. Not sore. Just⌠distant. Like they belonged to someone else, and heâd forgotten how to wear them.
But he moved anyway.
He always did.
In the bathroom, he washed his face with cold water until his skin felt raw. He leaned over the sink for longer than he meant to, eyes closed, waiting for the fog behind his forehead to lift. It didnât.
Still, he dressed. Ate. Stretched.
He didnât say anything to Ophelia Sage when she met him in the hallway. She gave him a once-over, coffee in hand, eyes narrowed just enough to mean Iâm watching you without saying it aloud. He met her gaze evenly, shoulders squared, posture flawless. If his skin was a little too pale, if his shirt clung a little too much at the back from lingering sweatâwell. Heâd been nervous at competitions before. That was all this was.
Wasnât it?
The rink smelled like cold metal, hairspray, nerves, and peppermint muscle balm.
A familiar blend.
Too familiar.
It brought him back all at once to a time he tried not to think aboutâto cracked lips and blistered hands, to coaches who didnât care if you were dizzy or bleeding, to long weeks of training with injuries so carefully hidden no one knew until they broke. In Ukraine, skating had been his future, his structure, his salvationâbut it had also been a test of endurance. Of obedience. You did not complain. You did not rest. You did not show weakness.
Veselko had been very good at learning those rules.
So now, when his stomach rolled subtly in his abdomenâempty and nervous and offâhe said nothing. When the headache pulsed again, low and hot, he rubbed the heel of his hand against his temple and muttered something about the lighting.
He wasnât sick.
He was fine.
He could do this.
The short program was tightly structured. He and Ophelia had rehearsed it to the secondâchoreography that leaned into contrast, built to highlight her power and his restraint, her fire and his quiet control. It wasnât their most theatrical routine, but it was technically difficult. Demanding.
He could hear it now in the music as they stood at the edge of the rink waiting to begin. Something violin-heavy. Delicate and fast.
He closed his eyes as the announcer read their names.
Veselko Zoryan and Ophelia Sage Dallas. Representing the United States.
A quiet exhale from his partner. He felt it beside him more than he heard it.
âYou good?â she asked under her breath.
âOf course,â he said. Too quickly.
She didnât push.
She never did right before they skated.
But he knewâknewâshe didnât believe him.
Then they stepped onto the ice.
The sound fell away.
His blades hit the surface, and for the first ten seconds, everything felt the way it should.
His limbs remembered the steps. The pace. The glides and turns and sharp stillness between motions. He carried her easily through their first movement, a simple assist lift that transitioned into side-by-side choreography. Her presence beside him anchored him. Their timing was perfect.
Exceptâhe wasnât breathing right.
Not from exertion. Not yet.
But by the time they hit their first jump, a synchronized triple toe loop, something shifted.
Not enough to ruin the landingâbut enough for him to feel it. A microsecond of hesitation. The ground rising up too fast. His knees bracing harder than they should have. The jolt up through his legs sent a throb up his spine, and for just one terrifying breath, his stomach lurched.
He buried it. Hard.
And he kept going.
They finished clean.
To anyone else, they looked like theyâd skated flawlessly.
But when they exited the rink, Veselkoâs breath came too fast. His hands shook as he pulled off his gloves, and he was sweating againâtoo much for what theyâd just done. A cold kind of sweat. His head pounded behind his eyes, and when he leaned against the wall to stretch out his legs, his vision swam.
Ophelia Sage didnât say anything. Not right away.
She handed him a towel. Watched him.
âYouâre off,â she murmured.
âIâm fine.â
âYouâre lying.â
He swallowed hard. The taste in his mouth was metallic.
âItâs just adrenaline.â
âYou didnât eat much today.â
âI never do before programs.â
âYou didnât sleep much last night.â
âI never do before competitions.â
He paused.
Then, softer. âItâs just nerves.â
She stared at him for a long time.
Then looked away.
âOkay.â
She didnât believe him. He knew that.
But she also knew what it meant to let someone have the illusionâespecially when that illusion was all they had.
Later, when the scores came inâhigh enough to place them in the top three after the shortâhe barely heard them read aloud.
He was too busy trying to stop his hands from shaking.
Too busy convincing himself that this wasnât a rebound.
That heâd made it.
That he was fine.
Even as something deep in his chest whispered otherwise.
-
The air inside the arena was thick with expectation.
The free program. The final performance. Four minutes of choreography, connection, stamina, and pain.
And Veselko felt like his body was running on fumes.
Heâd woken that morning with a weight in his chestânot emotional, physical. A pressure that sat between his ribs like a second heartbeat. The nausea had returned, slow and crawling, not enough to send him to his knees, but enough to make every sip of water feel dangerous. The headache was back, worse than it had been since the height of his illness, blooming behind his eyes with every pulse.
But none of that mattered.
Because this was it.
Four minutes.
He could give four minutes.
He had trained through worse. In Ukraine, he had skated with stress fractures, with bruised ribs, with blisters so deep they bled through his socks. He had competed with fever, with exhaustion, with coaches screaming at him from the sidelines. Pain was part of the contract. Discipline was survival.
And if he didnât perform today, if he pulled out or failed or collapsed...
Heâd never forgive himself.
Ophelia Sage knew.
She didnât need to ask. Sheâd seen it in the way he moved backstageâhis posture still perfect, his face unreadable, but his hands flexing like he couldnât feel his fingers. The tightness in his jaw. The way he sipped water like it might betray him.
âYouâre doing the whole thing?â she asked, low-voiced as they waited behind the curtain.
He nodded once.
She studied him.
âYou look like hell.â
He didnât respond.
âYouâre going to push through no matter what I say, arenât you?â
Still silence.
Then, quietlyâonly for her:
âI have to.â
She breathed in sharply through her nose. Angry. Not just at him.
âYouâre going to pay for this,â she muttered. âLater.â
âI know.â
âIâm not carrying you off the ice if you pass out.
âYes you are.â
She exhaled hard. âYouâre a nightmare. Don't fucking drop me."
He glanced at her, pale and sweating, but with a glint of something fierce still in his eyes.
âIâm your nightmare.â Veselko said, "And don't worry, kolyĂşchyi drĂt, you're light as a bird."
And then the announcer called their names.
And the crowd erupted.
The music began.
The first thirty seconds were beautiful.
They moved like silk across the iceâOphelia Sage, all fire and sharpness and striking lines, Veselko, all restraint and poise, quiet strength hiding the shaking of his limbs. Their blades cut smooth patterns into the rink, and the choreography unfolded with exacting grace.
But Veselko was already slipping.
Inside, he felt it like a storm gathering under his skin.
Every motion cost too much. His muscles burned too early. His breath shortened, high and tight in his chest. By the time they hit their first liftâa full press, the one theyâd fought over during trainingâhis arms were trembling with effort before she even left the ground.
Still, he did it.
She rose above him like a blade pulled skyward, and he locked his jaw, core screaming as he held her.
He landed it.
But the second she touched the ice again, his knees buckledânot enough to fall, just a stumble. He disguised it as part of the exit, hoped the judges didnât see.
Ophelia Sage did.
Her gaze sliced toward him like a blade, but she didnât break character. Just tightened her jaw, slid into the next sequence.
They kept going.
A jump. He landed it. Barely.
A death spiral. He executed it, barely breathing.
Side-by-side footwork. His vision blurred partway through, and he blinked rapidly, pulse roaring in his ears.
And through all of it, his body begged him to stop.
He was overheating in his costume, slick with sweat, his shirt plastered to his spine. His stomach was hollow, aching. His legs felt foreign, rubbery, dangerous. His fingers were numb. His headache had escalated to something blinding, hot and full and pounding in time with every movement.
But he kept going.
Because Ophelia Sage was still beside him. Because the crowd was watching. Because the music hadnât ended yet, and he had made a promise to himselfâto her.
The final lift came.
He almost didnât make it.
She jumped.
He caught her.
But his arms gave just slightly, a tremor shooting through his frame. It wasnât a drop. It wasnât even a fail.
But it was enough.
Enough for her to feel it.
Enough for him to knowâthis is the edge.
He brought her down.
Collapsed to one knee behind the landing.
Not part of the choreography.
Ophelia turned as the music faded, reaching for him before the crowdâs applause could drown out her voice.
âVeselkoââ
He stood. Somehow.
And bowed.
The audience roared.
And he smiled, just for a second. Bright and brief.
Then he turned off the ice.
And the moment the curtain closed behind themâ
His legs gave out.
He caught himself on the wall, one hand slamming into it, the other curled against his stomach as he dry-heaved with such force it echoed off the concrete. Nothing came up. His stomach was already empty. But his body wrenched like it wanted to fold in on itself, knees buckling, throat burning, sweat dripping from his chin.
Ophelia Sage was there in a second.
âYou idiot.â Her voice was sharp, furiousâbut her hands were on his shoulders, steadying him.
He gasped for air, swaying. âIâI finishedââ
âYou barely survived. Youâre burning up.â
He couldnât stop shaking.
His legs gave again. She caught him, somehow, half-dragged him down to sit on the bench, crouching in front of him like a storm in black velvet.
âI told you youâd pay for this.â
His head dropped forward. He couldnât argue. He could barely breathe.
âIâm so proud of you,â she said, low, furious, and shaking. âBut if you ever do that again, Iâll kill you myself.â
Between my own figure skating practice + the Olympics⌠Iâm so tempted to bring back my roster of figure skaters(and ice dancers) I donât think you ever met on this blog
if you have any questions, requests, comments, etc., send me an ask or a message!
tw for emeto, trying to hide illness from partner, getting sick on someone
There was a fluorescent hum in the dressing room that Vale couldnât tune outânot above the quiet churn in his gut, not beneath the noise of his own shallow breathing. He sat on the ottoman in front of the vanity, one foot jittering, heel bouncing against the laminate floor in a rhythm he couldnât seem to still. His handsâring-laced and tremblingârested against his thighs, fingers curled inward like they were holding onto something.
He wasnât sure what.
The nausea had been slow at first. Creeping. Lingering. Heâd blamed it on nervesâtoo much adrenaline too early in the day, maybe dehydration. Maybe a bad energy drink. Something harmless. Something fixable. But that had been over an hour ago. Now, it was bloomingâhot and wet behind his sternum, heavy in his stomach like he'd swallowed a bowl of salt water and then dared it to stay put.
He sipped water. Again. Carefully. Just enough to wet his mouth. The bottle was cold against his lip, blessedly so, and he held the mouthful of water for a second before swallowing. Swallowing felt like feeding a fire.
His stomach sloshed, sluggish and thick, like the water had dropped into a basin already overfull. Not quite liquid. Not quite solid. It sat, and it shifted, and it threatened.
Vale exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tight. He reached for the granola bar on the table, half-wrapped, untouched. He hadnât eaten yet. That was the problem. It had to be the problem. Nausea could mean hunger, couldnât it? That gnawing, hollow pressure behind his ribs? That heat coiling through his stomach like bad weather? Hunger could feel like that.
Right?
He took a bite. Chewed slowly, deliberately, like the food might misinterpret him if he rushed. It stuck to the roof of his mouth, dry and vaguely sweet, and his stomach flipped halfway through the second chew.
He stilled. Absolutely still. Just breathing.
Not now. Not now.
The nausea rolled againâlike something living inside him had stretched, twisted, reached up toward his throat in warning. He pressed a hand flat to his abdomen, thumb digging into the space just beneath his ribs, the heel of his palm bracing as if he could physically anchor the contents of his stomach in place.
His other hand clutched the armrest, knuckles whitening, fingers twitching like they wanted to rip the sensation out of him. His mouth tasted sour now. Metallic. That particular tightness had settled at the back of his throat, unmistakable and mean.
No. No.
He bit down on the inside of his cheek and swallowed. Once. Twice. He could do this. He had to do this. The stage was calling, the lights were almost up, and Eliasâsweet, observant Eliasâwas somewhere in the building, probably already pacing with a spare water bottle and a forehead kiss waiting.
And Vale couldnât let him see this. Not tonight. Not when the show was sold out. Not when it was his.
He dragged in another breath. Let it out slow. Counted it.
Four in. Seven out. Again. Again.
He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth like it might erase the nausea trying to climb out, then leaned over, elbows to knees, and whispered to himself under his breath:
The silence that followed wasn't reassuring. It was waiting.
And somewhere beneath his ribs, the storm just kept swelling.
The crowd had screamed his name like it was a prayer, and Vale had given them every inch of himself in return.
He always did.
Even now, drenched in sweat, heart jackhammering in his chest and throat dry as cotton, he glowed. He bowed like a prince, flared his arms wide like wings, and smiled so hard his face ached. His eyes glittered with adrenaline, but his stomachâhis stomach was pure punishment.
Somewhere mid-set, the ache had stopped blooming and simply settledâheavy and cruel, a hot, sloshing stone behind his navel. Every jump had sent it shifting, lurching. Every high note clenched his abdomen tight enough that his breath hitched, and every lyric felt like it had to fight its way past the threat of bile building slow at the back of his throat.
Heâd spent the whole last chorus holding back a gag.
But no one noticed.
The cheers were deafening. The lights were blinding. He looked, from the outside, flawlessâshirt damp, hair artfully tousled, lashes slick with sweat, smile radiant.
He made it offstage on legs that didnât feel real, still riding the high and faking the balance. His stomach flipped dangerously the moment the lights left him, a quiet protest buried under the roar in his ears. But there was no time to recover. The meet-and-greet line was already forming. Fans waitingâsmiling, starry-eyed, holding out phones and vinyls and their entire hearts.
So Vale pressed his own stomach lightly with the heel of his hand and smiled wider.
It was fine.
He was fine.
He stood for the photos. Gave hugs. Took shaky steps forward every time someone new arrived. Smiled through the way his gut clenched at sudden movement, smiled through the desperate press of nausea threatening to roll upward with every jostle. Someone bumped his shoulder too hard and his stomach nearly heaved then, sharp and immediate.
He coughed, played it off, swallowed hard.
The last photo snapped. The final signature scratched onto a sleeve. And finallyâfinallyâhe was alone enough to turn, slow and stiff, toward the hallway where he knew Elias would be waiting. The nausea had grown thick now. Headache bloomed behind his eyes. His skin felt tight, too warm, and he could swear he tasted copper.
But he had made it.
He rounded the corner, and there Elias was. Leaning against the wall, arms crossed, worry already knitted between his brows.
âHey, superstarââ Elias pushed off the wall, stepping forward into the quiet.
And then Vale was in his arms.
The hug wasnât hardânot by most standards. Just solid. Warm. One arm around Valeâs shoulders, the other sliding around his back and settling at his waist, drawing him in, grounding him in that way Elias always did. Safe. Gentle. Loving.
But the pressureâGod, the pressureâ
The second Eliasâs arm pressed even lightly over the front of his stomach, something inside Vale rebelled. His gut turned inside out. There was no warning, no breath to gasp, no time to speak.
Only panic.
Valeâs eyes flew wide. His body spasmed forward. He shoved his hand to his mouth, hard, but the flood was already risingâhot, sour, violent.
A wet gag tore from his chest, muffled by his own palm as the first wave came up fast and hit hardâthick and bitter, half-digested water and protein bar and acid that burned his throat raw. Some of it splashed through his fingers, and he tried to turn away, tried to swallow it back, but it kept coming. His body lurched forward again with a loud, choked retch, more of it spilling outâonto the floor, onto his boots, trailing down the front of his shirt.
He wouldâve collapsed from shame alone if not for Elias.
âOh, Valeââ Elias caught him instantly, hand moving from his waist to cradle the back of his head, the other tugging Valeâs hair out of his face with swift, practiced ease. No panic. No recoil. Just soft, sure steadiness.
Vale couldnât even speak. He was still gagging, harsh, wet spasms that wracked through him. His knees buckled. Elias lowered him gently, slowly, letting Vale half-sit, half-collapse in the hallway, one arm steadying him as another rush of vomit spilled from Valeâs lips. It hit the floor with a splatter. Thick. Copious. The sound echoed.
âShh, Iâve got you. Youâre okay,â Elias murmured, breath warm against Valeâs temple. âItâs okay. Just let it out.â
Vale sobbed through the next heaveâmore from humiliation than anything. His face was slick with tears and sweat and spit, and his stomach kept clenching even though there was nothing left. He trembled like a wire pulled too tight. His hands still shook where he braced himself, slick with bile, legs folded awkwardly beneath him on the floor of the venue heâd just headlined.
He managed a breath. Just one.
âIâm sorry,â he rasped, voice shredded and thin. âI didnâtâI didnât want you to seeââ
Elias pulled him closer, gently, hand pressing between his shoulder blades. âVale. Stop. You donât ever have to hide this from me. I mean it.â
Vale leaned into him, light-headed and sick and finally, finally letting himself fall.
The car ride to the hotel was quiet.
Not silentâquiet in the way a room feels after something shatters. Elias had pulled his hoodie off the second theyâd stepped out of the venue, draped it around Valeâs shoulders like armor, tugged the hood up over his sweat-damp hair. The extra fabric helped Vale curl in on himself, shrinking smaller in the passenger seat. He leaned his temple against the window, breath fogging faint circles on the glass, one hand clutching his stomach with a grip that never loosened.
The air conditioning was off. Elias had cracked the windows instead, just a bit, letting in the warm hush of night air. Easier on Valeâs senses. Gentler. The city passed in soft streaks of light and shadow, blurring past like none of it mattered.
âLet me know if you need to pull over,â Elias said softly, his eyes flicking between the road and the curl of Valeâs hunched frame. âI donât care if itâs every two blocks. Just tell me.â
Vale noddedâor at least gave something like a nod. But his mouth stayed closed. Lips pressed thin and tight, like letting anything outâwords or otherwiseâmight break whatever fragile control he had left.
Elias didnât press.
Not yet.
He took the turns slowly. Stopped fully at every light, hands loose on the wheel like he was handling glass. The hotel wasnât far, but every minute stretched long. Valeâs breath had gone shallow again. Not fastâcareful. The kind of breathing you did when you werenât sure if your stomach could take anything more than air.
At a red light, Elias finally spoke again, softer this time. âHow long have you felt off?â
Vale shifted slightly. Just enough that the movement clearly hurt. He winced, his other arm wrapping around his torso like he could hold the nausea still by squeezing it quiet.
âI dunno. Few hours?â His voice was raw. Shaky. âThought it was nerves.â
Elias hummed, low in his throat. âBefore soundcheck?â
âMaybe a little before.â
Elias nodded once. Another breath. Another block passed. Thenâ
âDid you eat today?â
Vale hesitated too long.
âI tried.â He sounded defensive. Or like he was trying to sound defensive. It came out tired instead. âI had a granola bar.â
âThat was after soundcheck.â
Vale didnât answer. Which was the answer.
Elias sighed quietly through his nose. Not angry. Justâaching.
They pulled into the hotel drive. The valet looked up, but Elias waved him off. âWeâre just parking.â Then he leaned over and placed a hand gently on Valeâs thigh.
âHey,â he said, voice warm and low and sure. âLook at me?â
Vale blinked slow. Didnât lift his head fully, but he turned just enough that Elias could see the misery etched under his lashesâhis eyes glassy, skin drawn and flushed in all the wrong ways.
âIâm not mad,â Elias said. âI just need to know how bad it is. Can you tell me that?â
Vale opened his mouth. Closed it. Swallowed thickly and winced like it hurt.
Then, quietly: âI feel like Iâm gonna throw up again.â
Elias was out of the car in a second, opening Valeâs door, crouching down low to help him shift. âOkay. Come on, love. Letâs get you upstairs.â
Vale moved like he was made of rubber bands pulled too tightâslow, shaky, slightly folded over, holding his stomach in one arm and gripping Eliasâs sleeve with the other. They made it through the lobby fast, the hoodie covering most of Valeâs face, head down like he didnât want anyone to see thisâlike being seen in this state was worse than being sick at all.
The elevator felt endless.
Vale leaned heavily into Elias, forehead against his shoulder, muttering something halfway between sorry and Iâm fine, neither of which Elias acknowledged.
When they finally reached the room, Elias got the door open with one hand and guided Vale in with the other, steadying him when he stumbled slightly toward the bed. Vale didnât lie downânot right away. He sat on the edge of the mattress, elbows on his knees, trembling.
âBathroom?â Elias asked gently, already setting his bag down. âOr do you think itâs passed for now?â
Vale shook his head, slow. âI donâtâ I donât know. I feel like shit.â
âYeah,â Elias said softly, crouching in front of him. âYou look like shit, too.â
That pulled the ghost of a smile from Vale, weak and worn. Then his face crumpled again, and he turned awayâhand flying to his mouth as his body heaved, another sudden retch punching out of him like a betrayal. Elias moved instantly, grabbing the waste bin from beside the bed and sliding it into place just in time for Vale to collapse over it.
This wave was worse than the othersâlouder, wetter, more drawn out. His whole body convulsed with the force of it. The sound of itâliquid and raw, echoing in the plastic binâmade Elias wince in sympathy, but he stayed right there. One hand on Valeâs back, rubbing slow, firm circles between his shoulder blades. The other tangled gently in his hair, keeping it back, brushing damp strands from his temple.
When it finally slowed, Vale slumped. Gasped. Gagged again, dry now. Coughed and spit and sobbed onceâjust once, but it was enough.
Elias set the bin aside and didnât ask questions. He just shifted forward, wrapped his arms around Valeâs shaking frame, and pulled him into his chest.
âIâm sorry,â Vale whispered. Again. Always.
âStop apologizing,â Elias murmured, pressing his cheek against Valeâs hair. âYou donât have to apologize for being sick.â
âI didnât want you to worry.â
âWell,â Elias said, soft but firm, âI am worried. And thatâs not your fault either.â
Vale didnât respond. He just curled closer, hands gripping the front of Eliasâs shirt, the weight of the night finally dragging him down now that someone else was holding him.
Elias rubbed his back. âWeâre gonna clean you up, okay? Then Iâm gonna get you water, and a cool rag, and whatever you think you can keep down. And if you canâtâthatâs okay. Weâll ride it out.â
Vale pressed his forehead tighter against Eliasâs collarbone. âI hate this.â
âI know, baby.â Elias kissed the top of his head. âBut you donât have to do it alone.â
The shower was already running by the time Elias left.
Heâd helped Vale up from the floor with infinite care, his arms wrapped gently around Valeâs waist as he steadied him toward the bathroom. Vale had barely said a wordâjust muttered a hoarse Iâve got it when Elias tried to follow him in. He didnât mean it harshly. Just tired. Shaky. Needing space, needing control, needing to scrape the night off his skin before he could let himself be sick.
Elias understood. He kissed Valeâs temple before stepping back. âIâm just going to the corner store. Iâll be back in ten.â
Vale gave a faint nod. Then he shut the door.
Steam bloomed fast behind the frosted glass. The water hissed sharp, then softened to a steady hum, like a heartbeat trying to settle.
Vale leaned heavily on the sink first, staring at himself in the mirror. His eyeliner had smeared down to his cheekbones. His hair stuck to his face in wet, salt-stiff curls. His skin was pale except where it was flushedâacross his nose, his neck, blotching high on his chest like a fever blooming from the inside out.
His stomach rolled again, loud and ugly, and his throat clenched.
âFuck,â he whispered.
He stepped into the shower. The moment the water hit himâhot and heavy, running down the back of his neck and over his shouldersâhe shuddered so violently he nearly slipped. His whole body spasmed, ribs tightening as another gag forced its way up, and before he could think, he dropped to his knees in the tub.
The sick came fast, no buildup this time. Just a hot, violent surge of bile and water and air. He braced one hand on the tiled wall, the other clutched over his midsection as the nausea tore through him again. His vision blurred. Steam clung to his lashes. His throat burned, raw and overused. He kept gagging even when there was nothing left, coughing and retching, saliva thick in his mouth.
It felt endless.
When it finally eased, he stayed there for a whileâkneeling under the stream, trembling, water running pinkish from his ruined makeup, his sweat, the bitter ghost of sick washing down the drain. His arms shook when he finally pushed himself upright.
By the time he finished washingâface, body, hair, everythingâhis fingers were pruned and his head was pounding.
His stomach cramped hard the moment he stepped out. Not nausea this timeâlower. A deep, sour twist that left him doubled over, one hand braced on the sink. He shuffled to the toilet, sweat springing fresh across his skin as his stomach cramped again and his body gave in completely.
Diarrhea, of course. Of course.
He didnât cry, but it was close. Not from pain. From sheer exhaustion. From the misery of it all, from the way his body felt foreign, disobedient, like nothing belonged to him anymore.
When he was done, he cleaned up quietly, mechanically. Washed his hands three times. Rinsed his mouth with water until it tasted less like acid. His legs were unsteady beneath him, and when he stepped back into the room, he had to stop in the doorway and lean against the frame.
The bed was untouched. The lights had been dimmed.
Elias was back.
The soft click of the hotel fridge filled the silence, and then Elias turned, his arms fullâginger ale, ginger chews, a bag of electrolyte powder, a small tin of balm, a cool rag already damp in his hand.
Vale didnât speak. He just looked at Elias like he wasnât sure if heâd earned thisâthis care, this gentleness.
Elias met him halfway, brow furrowed, voice quiet. âShower help at all?â
âA little,â Vale rasped. âThrew up again.â
Elias didnât flinch. âOkay. Got a bit more out of your system, then.â He handed over the rag. âHere. Sit down, letâs cool you off.â
Vale obeyed this time without protest. He perched on the edge of the bed and pressed the rag to his faceâfirst his cheeks, then his neck, then curled it under his jaw and just breathed. His body felt too warm and too cold all at once. The chill of the air hit his damp skin and brought goosebumps instantly. His teeth ached. His hands wouldnât stop shaking.
Elias sat beside him, close but not crowding, the quiet steady pulse of him a balm in itself.
âYouâre running hot,â Elias murmured, brushing damp curls back from Valeâs temple. âI think youâve got a fever.â
Vale closed his eyes. âFeels like it.â
âYou want to try sipping something?â
Vale opened his eyes again, weary but willing. âMaybe the ginger ale.â
Elias opened the bottle and passed it over. Valeâs hands trembled too much to hold it steady, so Elias kept his fingers loose around Valeâs, guiding it gently as Vale sipped. It was warmânot the bestâbut it fizzed softly in his mouth, sharp and sweet and grounding.
âIâm sorry,â Vale said again, quietly, without looking at him.
Elias didnât respond at first. Just kept his hand curled around Valeâs. Then, softly:
âYou always say that.â
Vale finally looked up. âBecause I mean it.â
âI know.â Elias smiled, faint but warm. âBut you donât have to apologize for being human.â
Vale huffed a breath that wasnât quite a laugh. âTell that to the guy who threw up on you.â
âI am that guy,â Elias said dryly. âAnd Iâm still here.â
Vale leaned sideways, pressing into his shoulder. Letting himself be held.
And Elias, quiet and steady, wrapped an arm around him and said nothing else. He didnât fuss. Didnât scold. Didnât smother.
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this fic takes place before the band but after high school. around the same time as this fic.
if you have any requests, questions, comments, etc., send them my way.
tw for overwork, emeto, implied past severe health problems.
Lex had been awake for almost twenty hours by the time his hands started to shake enough that he noticed.
Not the clean tremor of nerves â this was deeper, a low electrical hum under his skin, like his body was vibrating at the wrong frequency. He ignored it the way he ignored most warning signs. There were crates to move, cables to coil, signatures to chase down from people who kept disappearing the second he turned his back. Someone needed coffee. Someone needed a replacement mic stand. Someone else needed him to sprint three blocks because a courier had gone to the wrong building again.
Lex said yes to all of it.
He always did.
The hallway outside the studio smelled like old carpet and burned coffee. His stomach had been tight all morning, that familiar dense fullness sitting high and hard under his ribs, like heâd swallowed something that refused to pass. He hadnât eaten anything real â not since yesterday afternoon, unless you counted the half of a gas-station protein bar heâd choked down while jogging across an intersection.
He didnât count it.
He popped another pill dry, barely breaking stride. The chalky bitterness stuck to his tongue. Not his prescription. Never had been. A friend of a friend, a little orange bottle passed hand to hand with rules that were more suggestions than anything else. Just enough to stay functional. That was always how it started.
His phone buzzed. Lex glanced at it while unlocking a supply closet, brain skimming the message without fully processing the words. Something about a schedule change. Something about tonight running late. His head felt thick, stuffed with cotton, the edges of his vision fuzzing just slightly when he moved too fast.
He moved faster anyway.
By early afternoon, the chills started.
They came in waves â a cold sweep down his spine, goosebumps breaking out across his arms despite the stuffy heat of the building. Sweat clung to the back of his neck. His shirt stuck to his ribs. Every time he bent down, nausea rolled up through him, slow and heavy, like his stomach was a waterlogged bag being lifted from the bottom of a lake.
Lex swallowed it back. He always did.
When he finally ducked into the bathroom, it wasnât because he wanted to. It was because his body stopped negotiating.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The mirror showed him a version of himself he didnât pause to study: pale under the grime, eyes too bright, pupils blown wide. He barely got the stall door shut before he was on his knees, one hand braced against the tile as his stomach clenched violently.
It came up fast â sour, burning, the miserable half-digested remains of coffee and bile. His abdomen spasmed, tight and distended, muscles jumping under his skin as his body forced relief the only way it knew how. He gagged through it, breathing hard through his nose, jaw clenched like if he let go he might shatter.
When it was over, he stayed hunched for a few seconds longer, forehead pressed to his arm, waiting for the dizziness to pass.
Good, he thought distantly. Done.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, flushed, and stood up too fast. The room tilted. He grabbed the sink until it righted itself, fingers leaving damp streaks on the porcelain. His stomach still felt wrong â bloated, stretched, that awful heavy pressure lingering like a threat â but the nausea had receded enough to be manageable.
Manageable meant ignorable.
Lex splashed water on his face, didnât bother drying it properly, and checked his phone again. Missed calls. He sighed, already moving. There was no room in his day for being sick. Sick was a luxury for people who could afford to stop.
He swallowed another stimulant in the hallway, heart already picking up speed, pulse fluttering hard against his throat. The chill hadnât gone away, but the drug smoothed it over, wrapped his fatigue in a sharp, artificial clarity. His thoughts snapped back into focus. His body followed, obedient as ever.
By the time evening rolled in, the headache had settled behind his eyes like a vise. Light hurt. Sound scraped. His stomach swelled again, tight and unyielding, every step jostling it just enough to remind him it was there. He ignored that too, running on momentum and adrenaline and the unspoken rule heâd lived by since he was a kid: keep moving or youâll fall apart.
It wasnât until he finally dragged himself back to the apartment â the narrow stairwell, the peeling paint, the familiar smell of dust and old cooking oil â that the cracks started to show.
The door shut behind him with a soft click. The noise felt too loud. His head swam. He leaned back against the door for a second longer than necessary, chest rising and falling too fast, skin clammy under his jacket.
Somewhere inside, someone was talking. A kettle hissed. Life went on.
Lex pushed off the door and stepped inside, already bracing himself to keep going.
The rest of the day blurred into a series of small, ugly negotiations with his body.
Lex kept moving because stopping felt worse.
He drank what he couldâlukewarm water from whatever bottle was closest, half a sports drink someone had left behind, a few mouthfuls of cheap juice that burned going down and came back up not long after. Each time it happened, he treated it like an interruption instead of a message. Kneel. Breathe. Spit. Wipe his mouth. Stand back up. Keep going.
He grabbed a wrapped sandwich at one point, peeled back the paper, stared at it like it had personally betrayed him. He took two bites anyway, chewed mechanically, swallowed. His stomach cramped almost immediately, swelling tight and sour, pressure building until it crowded his lungs. He didnât even make it ten minutes before he was back in a bathroom, retching quietly, eyes watering, jaw aching from how hard he clenched it.
Fine, he thought afterward, rinsing his mouth. Liquids only.
By the time he finally made it home, night had settled in heavy and close. The apartment was dim and quiet, the kind of silence that pressed in on his ears after a day of constant noise. The door shut behind him, and for a second he just stood there, keys still in his hand, pulse thudding too fast, too loud.
He toed off his shoes and didnât bother with anything else. His head felt full of fog, thoughts slipping sideways when he tried to grab them. Fever heat flushed his face, chased by chills that left him shivering despite the stale warmth of the apartment.
Stillâthere was work to do.
Lex dropped onto the couch with his laptop, shoulders slumped but fingers already moving. Emails first. He squinted at the screen, rereading the same sentence three times because the words wouldnât stay put. His dyslexia flared when he was tired like this, letters swimming, numbers transposing themselves just to spite him. He corrected the same typo twice and still sent the email with another one glaring back at him.
It made his jaw tighten.
He forced himself to sip water between messages, small careful swallows. Sometimes it stayed down. Sometimes it didnât. When nausea surged, he leaned forward, breathing shallowly until the room steadied again. When that stopped working, he stood up, laptop tucked under his arm like this was all perfectly normal, and took it into the bathroom with him.
He sat on the floor with his back against the tub, knees drawn up awkwardly because his stomach felt too full, too tight to stretch out. He balanced the laptop on his thighs and kept typing.
The vomiting came in short, miserable bursts. Not enough to empty him out, just enough to hurtâacid and bile, his stomach clenching hard against its own distension. Each time, he paused, waited it out, wiped his face, and went right back to the screen.
He hated how slow his brain felt. How the fever made everything slippery. He hated that even now, sick and shaking, he was still better at this than anyone else they could pawn it off on. That if he didnât do it, it wouldnât get done.
At some point, the bathroom door creaked open.
Ksenia leaned against the frame, arms crossed loosely, her makeup already half-off, hair pulled back in a way that meant she was done pretending for the night. She took him in with a single, assessing glance: the laptop, the pallor, the faint sheen of sweat on his skin.
ââŚyeah,â she said after a beat. âThat tracks.â
Lex huffed a weak laugh without looking up. âHey.â
She didnât rush him. Didnât ask if he was okay. She assumed what made sense to assume.
âComedown?â she asked, casual, like she was asking if he wanted tea.
âSomething like that,â he said, which wasnât exactly a lie.
Ksenia slid down the wall until she was sitting in the doorway, knees drawn up, bare feet flat on the tile. She started talking about workâsome asshole client, the DJ who kept changing the lineup, a bouncer who thought he was Godâs gift. Her voice filled the small space, grounding and familiar, like background noise he didnât have to parse too carefully.
Lex listened with half an ear, nodding at the right moments, fingers still clumsy on the keys. His stomach rolled again. He muted himself mid-sentence, leaned forward, and retched quietly into the toilet. It burned. His eyes stung. His abdomen felt swollen and sore, muscles trembling with the effort.
When he sat back, Ksenia handed him toilet paper without comment.
âThanks,â he murmured, voice hoarse.
She studied him a little longer this time. âYou look like shit.â
âHigh praise.â
âYou know I mean that lovingly.â
He tried to smile and missed by a mile.
Minutes stretched. The nausea kept coming back faster, his body losing the fight a little more each time. His hands shook harder now, not the sharp edge of stimulants but the deep exhaustion underneath them. The laptop slid once, and he fumbled to catch it, irritation flaring hot and immediate.
âLex,â Ksenia said finally, softer. âYou sure this is just that?â
He hesitated.
That was the thingâhe didnât know any other way to interpret it. His entire life had been a cycle of override and aftermath. Push, pay for it later. Push harder, pay more. There had never been room to stop long enough to feel what his body was asking for.
âI just need to finish a couple things,â he said. âThen Iâm good.â
Ksenia sighed, not unkindly. She leaned her head back against the doorframe. âYouâre allowed to be human, you know.â
He swallowed, throat sore, stomach churning again. âYeah,â he said. âIâll pencil it in.â
She snorted despite herself.
They sat there together like thatâhim working, getting sick, working again; her keeping him company without trying to fix him. It was a quiet kind of intimacy, built on proximity and understanding rather than touch. She didnât scold. He didnât explain. They existed in the mess of it, two people who knew what it meant to keep going because stopping felt dangerous.
Lex kept working because the screen still lit up when he tapped the keys.
That was the only metric he trusted.
Ksenia came back from the kitchen with a bottle of water and pressed it into his free hand without ceremony. The plastic was cool, slick with condensation. He took it automatically, eyes never leaving the email he was rewriting for the fourth time because the words kept rearranging themselves when he blinked.
âDrink,â she said, already sitting back down in the doorway.
He did.
Small swallows at first, careful, paced. The water sat heavy and cold in his stomach, a weight he could feel settle immediatelyâsloshing, unwelcome, but tolerable. He kept typing. The glow of the screen tunneled his focus, narrowed the world to sentences and bullet points and deadlines that still needed to exist whether he felt like hell or not.
The bottle slowly emptied. He didnât notice until it was gone.
It stayed down for maybe three minutes.
Then his stomach clenchedâhard, violent, unmistakable.
Lex froze mid-keystroke. His abdomen tightened to the point of pain, bloated and stretched, pressure spiking fast and brutal, like something inside him had finally hit its limit. Heat flushed through him in a dizzying wave, nausea roaring up his throat with no warning this time.
âOhââ was all he got out.
Ksenia was on her feet instantly.
The first retch doubled him forward, sharp and wet, his body finally letting go of its restraint. Water surged back up, followed by everything else heâd forced down over the last several hours. His stomach convulsed powerfully, each heave dragging more up and out, loud and relentless now that the dam had broken.
âOkay,â Ksenia said, voice steady as she slid the laptop off his legs and set it safely on the counter. âOkay, Iâve got you.â
She gathered his hair back in one hand before he even realized he needed it, the other braced between his shoulders as he gagged again, harder. It kept comingâacidic, sour, the unmistakable volume of a stomach that had been upset for hours and was only now purging everything it had been hoarding in protest.
Lex shook with it, breath stuttering, forehead dropping to the rim of the toilet. His stomach cramped brutally, muscles jumping under Kseniaâs palm, distended and aching as it emptied in waves. He barely had time to breathe between heaves, tears streaking hot down his face.
âOh, Lex,â she murmured, no judgment in it at all. Just fact. Concern. Presence.
He couldnât answer. He could barely think.
When it finally slowed, he sagged back against the tub, chest heaving, skin flushed and damp. The relief was realâbut it was the hollow, wrung-out kind, the kind that left his limbs heavy and his head spinning.
Ksenia didnât let go of his hair right away. Her knuckles brushed his temple as she shifted, and thatâs when she felt itâhow hot he was.
âJesus,â she muttered, pressing the back of her fingers to his cheek, then his forehead. âYouâre burning up.â
Lex swallowed thickly. His throat hurt. Everything hurt. âIâm fine,â he said automatically, even as his stomach gave a weak, unhappy twitch like it might revolt again if given the chance.
She made a noise that was halfway between a scoff and a sigh. âSure you are.â
Time blurred after that. She wiped his face with a cool cloth. Rinsed his mouth. Helped him sip just enough water to wet his lips without risking another round. He leaned into her without realizing it, head lolling slightly, eyes glassy with fever and exhaustion.
At some point, light began to seep under the bathroom doorâthin and pale, early morning creeping in.
The door opened again.
Soren stood there in soft sweatpants and an old t-shirt, hair rumpled from sleep, concern already etched into his face before anyone said a word. His gaze flicked from the toilet, to Lexâs slack posture, to the fever-flushed skin, to Kseniaâs hand steady at his back.
ââŚoh,â he said quietly.
Lex registered him dimly, brain misfiring, latching onto the wrong meaning. âHey,â he murmured hoarsely. âIâve gottaâ Iâve gotta leave soon.â
Sorenâs expression tightened.
âNo,â Ksenia said at the same time, flat and immediate.
Lex frowned, trying to push himself more upright. The effort made his head swim. âThereâs stuffâemails, I didnâtââ
âYou are not going anywhere,â Ksenia cut in, firm now, one arm braced across his chest to keep him from pitching forward again.
Soren stepped closer, kneeling in front of him. He pressed his palm gently to Lexâs knee, grounding, anchoring. âLex,â he said softly. âYouâre sick.â
Lex blinked at him, confusion flickering across his face. He looked genuinely startled by the idea, like it had never occurred to him that this was allowed to be the conclusion.
âI just need to finishââ
âNo,â Soren repeated, voice calm but unyielding. âYou donât.â
Lex opened his mouth to argue and instead gagged weakly, stomach giving another sour roll. His body made the decision for him. He slumped back against the tub, eyes closing, breath shallow and uneven.
Ksenia exchanged a look with Soren over his head. A silent agreement passed between themâthis stops now.
âOkay,â she said, gentler again, brushing damp hair back from Lexâs face. âYouâre done.â
Lex didnât fight it this time.
He didnât have the strength.
The transition from the bathroom happened slowly, with resistance layered into every movement.
Lex hated being moved.
He hated the way his limbs felt heavy and uncooperative, hated the loss of momentum more than the pain itself. When Ksenia tried to help him stand, he reflexively pushed back, palm pressing against the tub like he could anchor himself there by sheer will.
âIâve got it,â he muttered, voice rough and too quiet. His legs trembled the moment he put weight on them.
Soren didnât argue. He shifted closer instead, shoulder lined up just enough to catch Lex if he tipped. âWe know,â he said evenly. âWeâre just here.â
Lex made a frustrated sound under his breath but didnât fight further. He let them guide him out, one careful step at a time. The hallway felt too long, the light too bright. His head throbbed in time with his pulse, a dull pressure blooming behind his eyes and spreading outward. Every few steps his stomach gave a sickly roll, still hollowed out and angry, like it couldnât decide whether it was done or just regrouping.
The couch was closer than the bedroom. Ksenia angled him toward it without comment, already anticipating the argument.
âIâm notââ Lex started.
âYou are,â she replied calmly. âJust for now.â
He sank down with a soft, defeated exhale, back hitting the cushions harder than he intended. The impact jolted something loose in his chestâhis heart fluttered, skipped, then thudded back into rhythm with a sharp, unpleasant lurch.
Lex went very still.
There it was.
Not new. Never new. Just⌠louder lately.
He pressed his hand flat over his sternum, more annoyed than alarmed, like his body was misbehaving on purpose. The sensation passed quickly enoughâan uneven stutter, a brief rush of heat to his faceâbut it left him feeling hollowed out, vaguely shaky.
Soren noticed anyway.
His gaze dropped immediately to Lexâs hand, then back to his face. âHey,â he said quietly. âDid you feel that?â
Lex rolled his eyes weakly. âItâs fine.â
Soren didnât push yet. He reached for the throw blanket instead, draping it over Lexâs legs with deliberate care. Lexâs skin was hot under his fingersâtoo hot. Fever-hot. The kind of warmth that felt wrong.
âYouâre burning up,â Soren said again, more firmly now.
Lex closed his eyes, lashes damp with exhaustion. âIâve worked through worse.â
That, finally, got a reaction.
Ksenia leaned against the arm of the couch, arms folded, watching him with an expression that wasnât angry but wasnât indulgent either. âYeah,â she said. âAnd you almost died doing it.â
Lex cracked one eye open, irritation flaring. âThatâs dramatic.â
âIs it?â Soren asked softly.
The room settled into a tense quiet. Morning light filtered in through the blinds, pale and unforgiving. Outside, the city was waking up. Cars passed. Someone laughed somewhere down the block. Life continuing, indifferent.
Soren knelt beside the couch so he was level with Lex, elbows resting on his knees. His voice stayed gentle, but there was an undercurrent of seriousness nowâclinical, focused.
âAny blood?â he asked.
Lex stiffened.
Kseniaâs head snapped up. âWhat?â
Lex swallowed. His throat felt raw, scraped. âNo,â he said too quickly. âJesus, Sor. No.â
Soren didnât look convinced. âNot when you threw up just now?â
âNo,â Lex repeated, more firmly. Then, after a beat, quieter: âNot this time.â
Kseniaâs jaw tightened. She knew. They both did. The memory sat heavy between themâLex, younger, thinner, coughing into a sink until the water ran pink. Lex brushing it off like it was nothing. Like it wasnât terrifying.
Soren nodded slowly, accepting the answer for now but filing it away. âOkay. If that changes, you tell us.â
Lex made a noncommittal noise and turned his face slightly into the back of the couch, like that ended the conversation.
His body, unfortunately, had other plans.
The fever climbed steadily, dragging him under in waves. Sometimes he dozedârestless, shallow sleep that left him more disoriented when he surfaced. Sometimes he lay awake, staring at nothing, heart pounding too fast for no reason at all. His pulse skittered unpredictably, little flares of tachycardia that made his chest feel tight and his breathing shallow.
Every time it happened, he tried to breathe through it, jaw clenched, refusing to draw attention.
Soren noticed anyway.
He hovered without hoveringâchecking Lexâs temperature with the back of his hand, timing his breathing when Lex wasnât paying attention, watching for the subtle tells that meant things were tipping from âmiserableâ into âdangerous.â His psychology textbooks were scattered across the coffee table, forgotten. This wasnât theory. This was a person he loved burning himself down in real time.
Ksenia adapted in her own way. She brought cool cloths. Saltines that went untouched. Ginger tea that Lex took two sips of before his stomach protested again. She sat close, grounded, talking about nothing and everything, keeping the air filled so Lex didnât disappear too far inside himself.
At one point, Lex tried to sit up abruptly, panic flashing sharp and sudden. âI need my laptop.â
âNo,â both of them said instantly.
âI have toâthereâs shit I didnât finish,â he insisted, breath hitching, heart picking up speed again. âTheyâre expectingââ
âThey can wait,â Ksenia said, firm now, pressing a hand to his shoulder to keep him down. âYou canât.â
Lex shook his head weakly, frustration edging into something rawer. âYou donât get it. If I stopââ
âIf you stop, you live,â Soren said quietly.
That landed.
Lex went still, chest rising and falling too fast, eyes glassy with fever and something dangerously close to fear. He stared at the ceiling like it held answers he couldnât afford to look at too closely.
He had lived his entire life on high alertâevery second tuned to survival, to staying useful, staying necessary. On the streets, stopping meant disappearing. It meant hunger, violence, being forgotten. Even now, safe in this half-broken apartment with two people who refused to leave, his body didnât know how to stand down.
Rest felt like a threat.
âI donât know how,â he whispered, so quietly it almost got lost.
Soren reached up without hesitation, resting his hand over Lexâs, still pressed to his chest. He could feel the erratic rhythm beneath it, the telltale flutter that made his stomach twist with concern.
âI know,â he said simply.
Ksenia softened then, her usual sharp edges blunted by something almost tender. She brushed Lexâs hair back, thumb lingering at his temple. âWeâll do it for you,â she said. âJust this once. You donât have to be good at it.â
just realized I messed up my queue. my bad for the unplanned fic out of designated order. I have about 10 works in my drafts Iâm working on queueing.
