Shouta's eyes get caught on Hitoshi's empty chair during morning call and while he's immediately angry that Hitoshi would skip a class so carelessly, he can't deny that the worry far outweighs the anger.

Hitoshi had seemed out of it for the last two days, and now he's missing.

"Where's Shinsou?" he asks the class and is met with confused shrugs and searching glances at the table, as if he could pop up at any second now. "No one thought to check on him?" he asks, almost angry that the class wouldn't care for one of their own and Midoriya raises a hand. "Yes?"

"I stopped by his door this morning but he said he'd be late," Midoriya says and then bites his lower lip so Shouta stares some more at him to get him to talk. "He didn't sound too well," Midoriya admits as he ducks his head in shame and Shouta's eyes briefly flash red.

"Go check on him right now and call me if something is up," he instructs Midoriya, because even though Hitoshi is his to take care of, ever since the adoption went through, he can hardly justify leaving his entire class to their own devices, when he can just as well send someone to look for Hitoshi.

There is no real need for concern right now anyway; it could just be a cold that plagues him and it's probably best if Shouta doesn't give Hitoshi another reason to call him out on his constant and endless fretting.

Shouta knows he's overdoing it, but it's hard to act like he does with every other kid when the entirety of Hitoshi's file is burned into his mind and he knows exactly what the kid had to suffer through at the hands of his previous foster families—and worse, even his biological family.

Shouta will not be the same and if that means fretting and worrying too much, then that's how it's going to be.

Besides, Hitoshi might have commented on his over-protectiveness, but he never told Shouta to stop and even after telling him that he should just tell Shouta if he doesn't want that, Hitoshi stayed silent.

And Shouta is taking great advantage of that to an extent that makes even Hizashi—certified mother-hen—tease him about it, but Shouta refuses to feel bad about it.

Hitoshi needs all the love in the world and Shouta will give him as much as he can.

Shouta gets impatient mere five minutes after Midoriya leaves, damn well knowing that the way to the dorms takes longer than that with how sprawling the campus is, and since it's still generally frowned upon to use quirks for anything but training, Midoriya will have to use his legs instead of his quirk. Still, Shouta keeps an impatient eye on his phone and studiously ignores the amused looks his class gives each other.

He forgets about them completely though, when his phone rings with Midoriya's name prominent on the display and just like that every thought about teaching is forgotten.

"And?" he almost snaps out when he answers the phone and Midoriya lets out a squeak.

"He doesn't answer and his door is locked but I think I heard retching noises?" he rushes out and that's enough to set off every warning bell in Shouta's mind.

"I'm on my way," he decides, because even with Hitoshi being sick it hardly justifies breaking down his door and Shouta does have a master key to all the rooms in case something exactly like this happens.

Shouta hangs up and then glares at his class.

"The rest of you will use this time to study silently. If I hear complaints or learn that something has been broken—" what even is his life that that is an honest concern with this class "—then I'll make sure you'll all wish you had never been born. Understood?"

"Understood, sensei," is the obedient chorus he gets back and it would be amusing if worry for Hitoshi wasn't eating Shouta alive.

He quickly makes his way over to the dorms, not quite daring to break out into a full on sprint because teachers running anywhere generally sets alarm bells off all over the campus and while this is certainly an urgent matter, it hardly requires a full shut-down of U.A. and the enlistment of other heroes.

Though maybe they will need Recovery Girl at one point, Shouta thinks and gets his phone out to text Hizashi an update, just in case.

Midoriya is pacing in front of Hitoshi's door when Shouta arrives there and his eyes are huge and worried.

"He threw up two more times," Midoriya tells him unprompted and it might just be an upset stomach. It could just be that he ate something that wasn't quite good for consumption anymore.

It could also be so very worse.

Shouta tries not to think about that though and nods at Midoriya.

"Thank you. Go back to your class, it's quiet study time," he instructs him and even though Midoriya hesitates for a moment, he does leave, though not without one last lingering look at the door.

Shouta waits until he's around the corner before he gets out his key and opens Hitoshi's door.

He's immediately hit with the smell of vomit and it's only because he's smelled worse in his time as a hero that he doesn't gag.

"Hitoshi?" he carefully calls out and is met with a low groan, so full of pain that Shouta winces. "Hey, kid, what's going on?" he asks as he steps further into the room.

His worry spikes when he finds Hitoshi sprawled over the mattress, head almost hanging off his bed, a puddle of puke right underneath him on the floor and Shouta is at his side a moment later.

"Hitoshi?" he asks again and carefully reaches out to take his temperature.

Hitoshi makes a wounded noise the moment Shouta's hand makes contact with his skin but more worryingly he doesn't rear back, despite the way Shouta's featherlight touch seems to hurt him.

"What's happening?" Shouta mutters, not really expecting an answer from Hitoshi at this point, but Hitoshi's eyelids flutter.

"Sorry," he slurs out and then loses what little colour he still has, throwing up some stomach acid again before he curls up small with a pained noise. "Please don't do it again," he whispers and clasps a hand over his mouth before he tries to push himself up on shaking arms. "I can leave the bed, I promise, please don't tie me down again," he rambles, his eyes staying entirely unfocused the entire time and there's a thin film of sweat on his face as he tries to get off the bed.

"Hitoshi," Shouta breathes out, so thoroughly caught off guard by the way his heart breaks at Hitoshi's words. "Shh, it's okay, stay in bed," he says as he gently tries him to lay back down, but Hitoshi's eyes go wide and panicked and it's more than obvious that he doesn't see anything anymore.

"No, no, please don't," he chants out, over and over again and he only stops when Shouta helps him off the bed.

He's too weak to stand on his own but Shouta is right there to catch him and he makes sure that Hitoshi misses the puddle on the floor.

"It's okay, you're okay," Shouta mindlessly repeats as he positions Hitoshi on the floor in a way that makes sure he's not going to choke on his own vomit should he have to throw up again without the strength to turn his head.

Shouta tries to move his sweat-soaked hair out of his face, but Hitoshi makes that pained noise again and Shouta snatches his hand back as if he's been burned.

"Is it your head?" he quietly asks and Hitoshi groans in answer.

This reaction seems a bit extreme for a normal migraine in Shouta's opinion because he suffers from them too and never has he been out of it like this and he reaches for his phone even as he keeps one hand on Hitoshi to let him know that he's still there.

Shouta dials Recovery Girls number though he gets distracted for a moment when Hitoshi throws up again because he has to make sure that he's not going to choke on anything.

"Hello, Aizawa?" Recovery Girl's tinny voice rings out and Shouta finally concentrates on her.

"Sorry. Can you come to Hitoshi's room? He seems to have a really bad migraine. He's thrown up several times since I got here a few minutes ago."

He tries to keep any urgency out of his voice because Recovery Girl doesn't respond well to demands made with worry but he trusts that she'll come see Hitoshi anyway.

"I can't do much about migraines, but that does sound worrying," she mutters. "I'm on my way."

"Thank you," Shouta says and then texts Hizashi another update after he hung up.

Hitoshi thankfully doesn't throw up again but he continues to groan and periodically tenses up in pain and Shouta wishes he knew how to help him because he can hardly watch his kid be in this much pain.

He only gets up from the ground when he hears Recovery Girl approach and he opens the door for her before she can knock.

"Did you find him there?" she asks as she makes her way to Hitoshi's side.

"No, he was on the bed but when he noticed me he started to panic, said something about being tied down again, that he could leave the bed and then he wouldn't stop trying to do just that so I figured it might be best to help him off."

"Well done, deary, now out of my way."

Shouta dutifully moves to the side and then watches her check out Hitoshi, the pit of worry in his stomach ever churning.

"Shouta, be a dear and call an ambulance," her voice finally rings out and every cell in Shouta freezes over with fear, even as he mechanically does as he was told.

"What's going on?" he asks once the ambulance is on its way and Recovery Girl turns towards him with a serious look on his face.

"This looks like an overdose, not a migraine."

~*~*~

Hitoshi wakes up to a steady beeping that grates on his nerves. He tries to reach out to turn off his alarm, but when something tugs on his hand and prevents him from moving freely he freezes up before panic crawls up his spine.

He forces himself to blink open his eyes, to see how bad it is, how tightly he's tied down this time, but when he only sees the faint glow of several monitors in an otherwise dark room he frowns in confusion.

There's a figure slumped at his bedside and even though everything in Hitoshi screams to not draw attention to himself, the beeping is driving him insane, so he clears his throat.

"Hello?"

The figure jerks upright, making Hitoshi shrink back in his bed, but a moment later he realises that it's Aizawa and not his previous foster father, so he forces himself to relax again, though the confusion persists.

"Hitoshi," Aizawa breathes out and reaches out to cup Hitoshi's face in his hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Fragile," Hitoshi says after a moment of pondering. "Can we make that stop?" he asks with a nod towards the monitor that peeps and Aizawa lets out a long breath.

"I can turn it down, but I can't switch it off," he offers and then does exactly that until the noise is down to a manageable background level and then he turns on a bedside lamp for some light that thankfully doesn’t grate on Hitoshi’s senses.

"What happened?" Hitoshi asks next because his memories are kind of fuzzy and just like that Aizawa's face falls.

"Hitoshi, how long have you been like this?" Aizawa finally carefully asks and it doesn't help with Hitoshi's confusion at all.

"Like what?"

Aizawa lets out a long breath, as if he doesn't even want to say it, and Hitoshi wrings his hands in his lap with worry.

"Suicidal."

Hitoshi blinks at that, because he expected a lot of things, but not that.

"I'm—not?" he offers because never, no matter how bad his life had been, has he contemplated killing himself, but Aizawa presses his lips together.

"Hitoshi, you're here because of an overdose. You took so many different kinds of pills that you nearly died. That sounds pretty suicidal to me."

"But—that's not—" Hitoshi starts to say, before it all comes back to him in a rush. "The migraine," he finally says, fitting the puzzle pieces together. "I'm not suicidal, I just had a migraine."

Aizawa's look tells him exactly how much he believes him and Hitoshi shrugs.

"I'm prone to them, because of my quirk, and usually a few pills help, so I keep a stash of them," he starts to explain and Aizawa huffs out a displeased breath.

"Yeah, I know, we found your stash." He doesn't seem too happy about that and Hitoshi ducks his head.

"Sorry, I just—I can't—not being able to leave the bed is not an option," Hitoshi mutters out and starts to rub his wrist, the phantom pain of rope burning his skin away seared into his memory.

Aizawa lets out a long breath at that before he catches Hitoshi's eyes.

"What does that mean?"

"It means—" Hitoshi starts but his voice breaks almost immediately and he just knows he won't be able to talk about this so he switches to sign language.

'It means I am not allowed to stay in bed when I have school,' he signs out and Aizawa frowns.

"What happens when you still stay in bed then?"

'My foster father made sure I really couldn't leave the bed.'

Hitoshi hates how his hands shake even doing it like this and he checks his wrists again, just to see if there really is no rope there.

'Tied me down on my back, didn't care what happened,' Hitoshi goes on, his hands going faster and faster, just to get this behind him. 'Threw up and almost died, so I can't stay in bed, I can never stay in bed, I have to get up, have to get away, please, I'm able to leave the bed.'

He's distantly aware that his signing is getting erratic, that his sentences barely make any sense anymore but it's only when Aizawa catches his hands in his, that he stops and takes a shuddering breath.

"It's okay, you're safe here," Aizawa promises him and strokes his fingers over Hitoshi's wrists. "There's no rope, you're okay."

It still takes Hitoshi an embarrassingly long time to calm down but Aizawa patiently waits him out until Hitoshi feels ready to talk.

"Sorry, but I'm—I'm not suicidal, I promise. I just—"

"You wanted to take as many painkillers as it would take to stay able to function even somewhat," Aizawa finishes for him and Hitoshi nods. "What went wrong?"

"I don't know," Hitoshi admits. "The pain was so much worse than it usually is, maybe because I didn't have one in so long or maybe because my quirk is stronger now and I just had to take more and more. I wasn't even thinking about what that would mean."

Aizawa closes his eyes and lets out a deep sigh.

"God, kid, you scared me half to death," he finally admits and Hitoshi's eyes burn, because he never wanted to do that.

"I'm sorry," he mutters but Aizawa looks back at him and gives him a small smile.

"I know," he simply says and pushes some of Hitoshi's unruly hair out of his face. "And we'll make sure that it won't happen again. We'll find you some medication that works; taking a certified cocktail of different painkillers is not the way to go here," Aizawa decidedly says and Hitoshi can't believe what he's hearing.

"You're willing to—still?"

"Still what, kid? Let you take medication when you need it? Or care for you like a proper parent should?" Aizawa wryly asks, clearly already knowing the answer and Hitoshi's eye brim with tears.

"Both," he gets out and doesn't resist when Aizawa pulls him into his arms.

"Of course I'm still willing to do both these things, Hitoshi. You dealt with this however you could with what you had and sure, you'll have to talk to a therapist, just for peace of mind but I'm not going to deny you medication that you clearly need. Maybe it'll be supervised at first, but you will get something that helps you. And I'm not going to kick you out or whatever you think, not for something like this and in all honesty, not ever. You're stuck with me now, kid."

Aizawa sounds so certain of himself, as if nothing could ever make him change his mind and it's such a balm to Hitoshi's frazzled nerves to hear it that he can't stop the tears anymore.

"Thank you," he gets out, clinging to Aizawa as if his life depends on it, and who knows, maybe it does.

Another thought he quickly shoved aside, another problem to ignore till it blew up.

Except a lone hobo who threw up way too close to his shoes, nothing ripped Morris out of the daydreaming that kept his last sliver of sanity alive. The risk of being arrested on the spot or stabbed to death by someone who needed cash even more than him aside, the prize of it all was just...surviving.

"One day you wake up, and your whole life is spent in what?" Amber's life lesson was now sober reality, spot-on to the last detail.

Hearing her voice again used to pierce through his gut and leave him wrecked with self-hatred, although these feelings had died down in the time they spent apart. Not that he didn't try to distract himself from the distraction, oh no, he had several chances to drown out boiling memories of past love during the spring months, but this year it was different. Nobody was waiting at home. Morris couldn't let go, not this time, not since her...since him-

If Belanger didn't call right now, he would find a good use for all those narcotics in his pocket.

A break from it all, that's what he needed to work himself to the bone for. 

Wrapping his leather jacket closer around his body, Morris wished to disappear into it completely. Even the colorful August couldn't hide that it had gotten colder in the last days of an already far too chilly summer. 

Without any warning, his peaceful solitude was interrupted again. 

A figure stumbled blindly along the sidewalk. Morris' gaze followed them closely, how disoriented feet pushed each other forward and finally letting them flop down onto a bench near the park's exit.

Drunk or high, certainly. Care for another round? 10 bucks for a flat of fentanyl - dark green, quite popular at the moment. 

Still, Belanger didn't give him the go-ahead yet. Maybe he should make today's slow business hum: be proactive, independent. Write it on a resume, why not.

His stiff knee gave an audible crack as it was forced to stand straight, lazily stretching the sore muscles in his back and taking the first few steps towards his potential customer, Morris started to become flustered. 

Could be a setup, for all he knew. Something was off. 

The soon-to-be buyer was wrapped up in shadows, sitting quietly by themself and only rarely mumbling at the stones below their feet.

He approached until their shoes nearly touched, time to play offense: "You good?"

Nothing. Awkward, he wasn't used to making the first move like this.

Shoving at the motionless shoulders only made their head flop forward, and a forced sigh quickly followed it. First week on campus, probably, lost their friends and self-control only to aimlessly walk around the neighborhood.

"You definitely had enough fun for today, buddy," Morris scoffed, ready to turn around. 

Suddenly, he faltered. They had to rethink Belanger's strategy if he ought to stay here, passed-out freshmen were only good for catching unwanted attention and as long as Dutch didn't want to see his ass in jail, any cops on patrol should be avoided. Not that they lost sleep about the mass of catatonic bodies scattered throughout the city streets, just when they were seen in the wrong parts of town - the pleasant ones.

"Move," so he demanded, quickly lifting up their chin, nestled against the stiff collar of their windbreaker, with his fist. "You're gonna get me in trouble."

The hot breath against Morris' hand sent shivers up his spine. After nights like these, he felt mostly frozen numb, but the air coming out in labored and shallow puffs let his fingers tingle with newfound life.

Suddenly, the howl of an ambulance cut through the silence. Not for them, of course, it was surely headed east. As it took a turn and rushed past the unusual couple, Morris caught a quick glimpse of his vis-à-vis.

For less than a heartbeat, his body froze.

His mouth began to open and close like a fish on land, unable to produce a single word, whilst the prickle spread from his back through every inch of his body. A wonderful illusion bloomed under the blue-red-blue-red flicker and as quickly as it had reached both, it left them alone in the nightly glow of streetlights.

Morris didn't hear himself gasp, the rush of blood in his ears was too deafening. Now dead focused on the freckle-sprinkled skin, tousled dark hair and soft lashes, an inward pull kept him from blinking: the fear that he would be ripped out of his trance.

No dream, no wishful thinking. Morris would recognize this face anywhere.

"Elliot?"

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterlist]

“I thought as much.” Shivering and sweating, he looked absolutely godawful when Jon folded back the covers; sniffling and coughing and making pathetic little noises that Jon responded to sympathetically. “When’s the last time you had any medicine?” Tim shrugged with one shoulder, hair messy and sticking up in all directions, but he’d been sleeping for a little while and when Jon pressed the inside of one wrist against his blazing forehead he decided it had probably been long enough. He poured an electric glass of blue and handed Tim an open blister pack of pills, waiting until he’d downed both before tucking him back in and gently shushing his muttering.

Jon unpacked the rest of his supplies, leaving them where Tim would easily find them, now confident that he’d made the correct call before checking in on him one more time. Asleep and considerably less flushed, Jon felt alright leaving him, placing a note with instructions to call him should he need anything else underneath a glass of neon liquid and leaving the way he came.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise. Jon had been feeling out of sorts all weekend and coming into work certainly hadn't alleviated any symptoms. If anything, he felt worse and though Martin did what he could and made him tea and made him go home relatively on time, Tim was just angry; snapping at him when he blocked the narrow archive hallways, slow from still healing injuries and aches brought about by his cold and drawing attention to the fact that Jon was damaged goods. It wasn't a good feeling, especially when Sasha seemed to join in on the fun in her backhanded way. Or maybe not really at all? Maybe he was misinterpreting it, probably. They’d been so upset with him lately and his paranoia and he didn’t mean to, really he didn’t. Rather than think on it any longer, Jon let his head fall to his desk, closing his eyes against the thin line of hallway light because even that small amount was like looking into the depths of the sun.

Couldn’t record.

Couldn’t research.

Couldn’t ask anyone for help with either task.

Or for. Well. For help at all, really.

And he thought he might like a little help at the moment. Someone to bring him lunch knowing he wasn’t feeling well even though he wouldn’t be able to eat it. Checking in to see if he was set on medicine. Asking after him so he could deny feeling so poorly only for them to see past it and send him home.

He wished someone would just…see him.

He'd always had trouble accepting that his actions had consequences and learning those types of lessons never had been his strong suit.

Martin’s tea was the one bright spot in his day. He could and did look forward to that in the afternoon. Would just lay here until then. Waiting for a bit of perfectly steeped comfort. And he didn’t disappoint because if Martin was anything, he was reliable.

“Jon, you look dreadful.” Blessedly, the light was still off because Martin was smart like that, in the little ways that really mattered, and he was silhouetted against the door, blocking the beams just waiting to fall over him and dig the icepick deeper. When he opened his mouth to answer, nothing came out, lips forming around the shapes of the words he’d tried to say and quickly forgotten in mild surprise at how sore his throat was. He reached for the tea with trembling hands and when did that happen? Pulling it towards him across the desk and sipping from the rim without lifting it. Hot. Lovely. Full of honey and lemon and the noise he made was wholly unprofessional. Humming, he let his eyes close, taking another swallow. “I think you should go home early.” Large and cool against his skin, Jon leaned into the palm on his forehead. “Yeah, you’re burning up, you shouldn’t be here.” Sad at being scolded, Jon hid in his tea and Martin let him finish, pen scratching against a scrap of paper. “Can you make it on the train?” Probably? He made it here didn’t he?

“Y’yes, Martin.”

“Ah, there you are.”

“Thank you. For, for the tea.” Really.

“‘Course. Now, here.” He pressed the note into his hand, wrapping his scarf around his neck after he did so while Jon tried to parse the information. “You’re to stop off at the chemist, all right?” Jon nodded, the squiggles dancing in front of him and he knew Martin’s handwriting wasn’t that bad. “Give that to them, they’ll help you collect the medicine, alright?” A hand on his shoulder caught his attention. “Alright?” He nodded again. “I’d go with you, but, my mum.” And again. “Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own? I could ask Sasha or Tim--”

“No! No, no need to bother them. I’ll, I’ll be fine.” He could feel Martin looking him up and down, he could feel the weight of his disbelief.

“I’ll see you to the door.” Gently, he steered him through the archives, “I’ll be texting. You’ll be answering.” Nodding, he knew Martin was watching him as he set off towards the station.

By the time Jon staggered into the sitting room, he was ready to collapse. He was weighed down by several medications and the instructions on how to take them and he would make sure he took them. And drank water. Because Martin said and he’d been disappointing so many people lately that the thought of disappointing one more made tears sting the corners of his eyes. A buzzing woke him from where he’d fallen asleep on his couch.

Did you make it home? Oh. Yes. Martin did say. Jon stared at the screen before shoving himself up. He should take some medicine and go to bed. Bed, that sounded lovely. Laying down sounded lovely.

Yes, thank you, Martin.

Good, get some rest. DO NOT come in tomorrow.

Yes, Martin. He waited a few seconds before sending again, Thank you, Martin.

The next day passed in a blur of different medications, glasses and mugs of water, and shifting from bed, to couch, to overstuffed chair in his restlessness, sleeping hours wrapped up in each in between responding to Martin’s texts.

Martin was surprised, to say the least, at how well Jon was keeping in touch. He responded to each inquiry within a few hours, hopefully spending the time between resting, was taking medicine, and keeping himself hydrated. Martin was. Well, he was a little stunned, to be honest.

Got medicine. Even a glass of water. He’d included a blurry picture of said glass and it was so Not Jon, Martin’s laugh got away from him.

Doing fine, thank you, Martin. His standard response.

You don't have to keep checking on me. What Martin was sure was his guilty response.

I'm alright. There was more and more time in between these. More time, and fewer words, and worry settled heavy in his stomach.

tired Unnerving.

And then on Saturday, nothing at all.

Martin couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong and when Jon didn’t text back, or pick up the phone when he called on repeat, he rang Tim.

“Martin.” No. There was no way he was going over there. He’d sooner chuck the key into an open drain and walk into the next fear ritual voluntarily than check on him.

“Tim, I, I can’t, or I would. Please. Please, you have a key and I just know he’s in a bad way.” He sighed. Martin’s voice was shaking on the other end of the line and Tim knew that if he could have been there for Jon, he'd be there already. "Just, just a quick look. To make sure--to make sure."

Make sure.

"Please, Tim."

"I. Fine. Fine. Five minutes, that's all I'm wasting on him."

All told, Jon didn't live more than a few stops away and Tim thrust his hands into his pockets angrily, hunching into the collar of his coat and swearing under his breath. Jon was fine. He was ignoring Martin because that's what he did to people. At the door he stood waiting before finally rapping his fist sharply against it.

"Oi! Jon!" A few seconds of silence and he was counting down his promised minutes. Cheating he supposed because he had yet to see him, but whatever. "Open up! It's Tim!" Who else would it be, you miserable, paranoid, overblown librarian. He'd have to use his key and even touching it made his stomach flip. He didn't want to be here. He wanted to be far away from here and he couldn't even do that. But for Martin, he twisted the key in its matching lock, shoving into a chilly sitting room strewn with half-empty mugs and glasses of water littering each flat surface. "Jon?" No sign of him yet, he could have stepped out. Tim picked up his phone, balanced on the edge of a scratched and worn table. A string of missed calls and increasingly panicked messages ending finally in threats to send Tim I know you have a key Stoker. "Christ." He wasn't in bed, the small thing practically hidden beneath every blanket in the place and he pushed into the bath, flicking on the light like he'd suddenly appear and gawping like a fish when he did.

Curled up on the freezing tile, shivering fit to fly apart and soaked through with sweat, lay one ailing Jonathan Sims.

"Jon?" Ashen and struggling to breathe, he didn't respond until Tim kneeled and shook one bony shoulder and even then it took far too long for him to become anything other than barely aware. Face twisting up, Jon blinked, pulling in a labored lungful of air and gearing up to use it.

“T’Tim? How…?” Fucking hell, even with a foot out the door--

“Enough with the paranoia!" The flinch was like a physical blow and Jon began hacking unproductively into his folded elbow.

“S’sorry...din’t…” Breathless and trying hard to catch it. Flooded with guilt, Tim dragged a hand down his face. Here he was in his flat, miserable and ill and now Tim was here out of nowhere shouting at him? “Sorry. D’you n'need somethin'?” He’d always been small, a subject of much contention when things used to be good, but his voice, small and tired--he was barely there, skin and bone, burning away into nothing if the flush high in his cheeks meant anything. He was just sick. Hit hard with a bad flu and trying his best to manage it alone. And how did that make him even angrier? There was medicine scattered around and he even had an empty glass on the floor with him--he'd been trying and instead of just asking for some damn help!

"Do I--no!" Yelling at a half naked man lying on the floor. Nice Tim. What energy Jon had was gone, and he was back to gasping between words, confused.

"Then… I, I don't… What--" He heaved for another gulp of air, like he couldn't get enough.

Multiple types of meds, some with overlapping ingredients. Idiot had probably overdosed himself on the different kinds, too disoriented to keep careful track.

"Jon, how much did you take?" Tim grabbed him now, fingers digging painfully into his hot, hot skin.

"Dose… the, the dose."

"How much?" He demanded and Jon whimpered, ducking his head.

"I, I--" Shaking harder now and crying silently, huge tears rolled down his face. He was scared of him, afraid and pushing himself off the tile in an attempt to put more distance between them only succeeding in bouncing his temple off the tub. With a hoarse cry he curled into himself, and he'd hate the comparison, but like a dying spider. Hunched forward and protecting his no doubt aching head with gangly too thin limbs. "Instructions… M’Martin said. Said water an’ an’..."

Tim was terrible at this. Barging in, yelling and shouting. Jon probably didn't know which way was up, let alone how much medication he took trying to get through this by himself with his only connection being the phone he'd left on the table. Clearly, he hadn't been well enough to retrieve it.

Damn it, Jon.

"Let me see." Another squeak, wretched and sneaking from his throat. "Jon." Stern, not angry, scooching forward and he could see one red rimmed and wary eye peeking between his fingers and the curls escaping from their tie. "Lemme take a look." Gently and after a moment's more scrutiny he was allowed to touch, to guide his trembling hands away, brush back the tangles to examine the forming bruise. It didn't look too bad. Certainly no more than either of them had experienced before. What was bad was the heat under his palm, the tiny shivers, the way his chest stuttered trying to pull each breath into his body. “Okay, the floor isn’t the place for you.”

“S’sorry. I--” Cut off by another fit, this one harder than the last, and it left him winded, apologies forced out by halves. “Been d’dizzy…”

“You don’t need to apologize for being ill, Jon.”

“M’sorry.” Tim sighed, reaching for him again and hating the way he shrank away. But he supposed just minutes ago he was shaking him.

“S’alright, boss.” Relieved by the way the old nickname relaxed him, he hefted him up and Jon was like a new colt trying out his legs for the first time, hands fisted in Tim’s shirt, inhale, exhale, shallow and fast.

Safely deposited on the bedside, Tim handed him an oversized shirt from the half-open drawer, recognizing it as his own, left behind sometime before. It would have been big on Jon back when they worked in research but now. The fight to yank off the sweat soaked tee took it out of him, evidenced by the way Jon had just tossed it on the floor and now he was bare chested, ribs beginning to show, all scarred skin and exhausted shaking. Tim hated it; this man was a stranger and he shouldn't be. He slipped his shirt over his head, leaving him to figure out how to get his arms through the sleeves.

“Lay down.” He’d arranged the pillows to keep him up off his back while breathing was still a chore. “Text Martin.” Tim pressed the phone into his hand, stepping away and returning with a cold compress, smoothing it over his forehead and checking to make sure he’d fired off a message. It was short and poorly spelled, but Tim knew it would put Martin at ease, especially when he followed up in a moment or two.

And he sat at the other end of the bed. Feet up and legs laid beside Jon’s.

Watching.

Watched.

Until even half out of his mind, Jon had to ask.

"Y’you’re staying?" Eyes barely open and just above a whisper.