Whumpmas in July day 9: Choice
Whoa Bessie
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James wakes at 2 am, a mess of sweat and spit and hair. He rolls over, pulling the quilt over Steveâs snoring body, then yanks it clean off the bed and onto the floor. Â
âBuck?â Steve blinks blearily.  âYou ok?â Â
But Jamesâs three steps ahead of him, stumbling across the dimly lit room toward the ensuite.
âFine,â James mumbles, though he isnât at all sure what the fire in his chest wants him to do tonight. Heâs shaking off images of dead Taliban, burning car parts. The taste of burning oil mingles ever so slightly with the summery stenches of his own bodily secretions. His musk, his bile, his blood...
James gags hard and stop at the sink, which is closer. He expects it to be a one-off. Gag, get a little out, maybe cough a few times rinse up, go back, to bed, pretend nothing happened. That sort of thing. He doesnât expect himself to truly be sick.
âItâs ok.â Steve takes him by the waist and hauls James the four feet or so from sink to toilet, vomit trailing from his lip to his chin, across the counter, onto the floor, and up again onto the pristine white toilet seat. âI got you.â
James just coughs. âI wanna--go back to bed--â
âGet it out of your system first.â
âUgh.â Itâs not like he has any choice, really. And thatâs what James hates most about it. Itâs like heâs a prisoner again, this time to his own body. He sputters, trying desperately to spit before his stomachâs quite finished heaving.
âHey, be calm.â Steve rubs his back in long strokes.  âI got you.â
James sighs, letting his jaw hang open.  â...K...â He lets his body slacken in Steveâs grip.  ââM tired.â
âI know.â Steve lifts Jamesâs damp hair off the back of his neck.  âItâs gonna be ok. Weâll get you cleaned up, then you can go back to sleep.â
âHm.â James nods, though it redoubles his nausea.  âOk. That sounds... Ok.â














