#emetocommunity

Christmas is one of the few days of the year that makes Judah feel warm. There could be a blizzard outside and twelve beers coursing through his dad’s veins, but Judah’s heart remains thawed. Despite the grief that’s been breathing down his neck since first grade, he’s managed to be lucky enough to avoid the seasonal depression that burdens so many people. He knows his mom wouldn’t want him to mourn on her favorite day of the year.

Under the tree in his living room sits a box covered in gold fabric. It’s filled with letters to his mom. Every year, he adds something new. Sometimes it’s a collection of the poetry he’s written over the year, sometimes it’s raw scribblings he bled over on the nights where all he wanted was to cry to his mom.

This year, it’s a carefully crafted paper crane. At the start of the year, he began a list of everything he wished he could tell her. When Arlo went on an origami kick over the summer, he’d tried to teach Judah. The only thing that worked out for him was a crane, albeit a rather wrinkled one. He spent hours practicing to make this one perfect, and everything he wanted to tell her is tattooed across every inch of the paper.

Tucking it in among the other papers, Judah feels the warmth in his chest blossom. He takes another moment to just look down at the collection before he closes the box and stands.

And, whoa.

His vision tunnels, and he grasps for the doorframe that he’s lucky is directly to his right. It takes several long seconds for his eyes to start working again, but his head is still spinning. He feels almost—drunk?

He swore after his last hangover that he’d never touch another drink. So far, he hasn’t, so that’s not the problem here. He starts asking himself what could be wrong, but his body gives him an answer before he really wants it. It comes in the form of nausea seeping over him like lava.

Warning: graphic descriptions of vomit & mentions of grief 

The second Judah passes through the front door, he wants to collapse. His knees threaten to fold, so he braces himself on the wall by the entry. He lets his head hang, grounding himself as he resists the urge to fall over. He hadn’t slept more than an hour the night before, and his classes were unforgiving as usual—halfway across the campus from each other, in fact. Lovely.

After a short moment, he lets his backpack drop to the ground and heads straight for the stairs. Usually, he’ll grab whatever he can find from the kitchen and call that dinner, but tonight, the last thing he wants to do is eat. To add to his misery for the day, he has the sneaking suspicion that he’s coming down with something nasty. Ever since lunch, there’s been suspicious movement in his stomach, keeping him right along the edge of feeling unwell.

He trudges to his room and lands face-down on his bed with a muffled groan. He doesn’t even have the time to take his shoes off before he’s dead asleep.

Everything seems sort of seasick and distorted in his dreams, like a stranger constantly weeping his name from several rooms over. He gets trapped in an impossible task more than once, and half of the time, he can’t even understand English. The frustration and confusion well up significantly, and he finds himself actually walking straight off a bridge.

He wakes with a start.

His neck is stiff, and his head feels so stuffed with cotton that he isn’t sure that he hasn’t just entered another dream. His mouth is dry and stale, and the more he wakes up, the more he gets the vague feeling that whatever he ate for lunch is swiftly coming back on him. Swallowing defensively a few times, he gives himself just another moment to come to.

Eventually, he pushes himself up and rubs roughly at his eyes until his vision fills with stars. When he opens them, he comes to the realization that the light coming from outside his window has dulled to a muted orange-grey. He doesn’t know what day it is or who he is for a single, frightening moment.

A quick glance at his clock tells him he’s slept for nearly four hours, but his body tells him he hasn’t slept in weeks. There’s a twinge of pain to add to the discomfort in his stomach now, and the slight movement from earlier has become somewhat of a storm in his insides. He brings a hand up to unbutton his jeans, sighing when he gets just the tiniest bit of relief.

Unfortunately, the duration of his relief is probably two minutes at most. After those precious moments of sitting half-lucid, he starts feeling significantly queasy and rotten inside. It begins as just a tug, but within minutes, he feels like he might actually have to throw up his lunch. It hadn’t been very pleasant going down, so he grimaces at the idea of it all coming back up, sure to be tinged with stomach acid and bile.

He almost thinks he can already taste it, and that sends him hurtling as fast as he can towards the bathroom. He feels a little faint, and once he’s safely kneeling in front of the toilet, he closes his eyes against the spinning sensation. His stomach doesn’t immediately come rocketing out like he thought it would, but he still feels like it could at any moment.

His belly gives a low whine, leading straight into a cramp. He loops his arms around his stomach and holds his breath as the organ twists and curls, clearly fighting with whatever garbage they’d fed him in that godforsaken cafeteria. The cramp eventually dissolves into a rippling bout of nausea, and he hangs his head over the bowl, groaning miserably.

When another cramp almost immediately begins to seize in his stomach again, his breath gets caught in his throat. An unexpected wave of emotion unfurls in his chest, and he suddenly wants nothing more than for his mom to be there, telling him he’ll be okay.

He lets out a strained sort of noise, letting the sense of longing sink like lead in his limbs and pin him to the floor. He’s usually very good at keeping these foolishly childlike and very impossible desires suppressed, but today, his body is already too occupied fighting the fever that has his blood curdling in his veins. He wants to cry, but all he can seem to do is tremble and moan while he waits for his stomach to turn on him. His throat tightens with the force of sobbing, but no tears or sound come out, so he tries to focus on his breathing like he’d been taught.

He shuts his eyes and lets out a long, measured exhale, imagining that billowing, black smoke is coming out of his lungs. It makes him relax somehow, bringing him some sense of cleansing to the heavy weight in his chest. Unfortunately, his stomach abruptly ruins the illusion with another nauseating flip, and he opens his eyes to cough miserably over the water. Again, nothing comes up to relieve the tension in his gut.

He groans, moving to lay completely on the floor in surrender. He stays plastered there for several minutes, sweating despite the cold tiles pressed to his skin. That same swell of emotion remains dormant in his chest, pressing up into his throat and making it difficult to get a full breath.

The sense of longing doesn’t leave, either, and suddenly, he needs his aunt more than he can express. Feeling resolute, he lifts himself using the edge of the tub to leave his safe haven. He does stop at the door, giving himself one last chance to turn around and hurl if he needs to, but he doesn’t feel too urgent. The spiked, rushing feeling he’d had before has dwindled down to a rumbling ache, but he still feels awful enough to seek the only familial comfort he has left.

He’s thankful for the fact that he’s already fully dressed and ready to go, thanks to the rapid onset of his near-coma earlier. He lazily pockets his phone and heads down the stairs, hoping he can make it out without being noticed.

He’s never that lucky.

The second he gets close enough to touch the front door, his name is being called from the next room. He deflates, suddenly feeling more exhausted than ever. He can feel the fever coursing through his veins, boiling his blood almost to the point of delirium. It takes him several seconds to realize he hasn’t actually responded, and then his name is called once again, sharper this time. He debates just walking out the door, but ultimately decides that would be infinitely worse, and so he walks into the living room.

He finds his dad, limbs strewn on the couch, illuminated only by the flickering light of the TV. Judah’s stomach churns. He begs it to wait.

“Well?” is all his dad says, and Judah knows better than to ask what he means.

“I’m...I just want to go visit Aunt Josie tonight,” he admits, voice softer than he intended.

His dad lets out a sigh, turning his attention back to the TV. He seems to be thinking, though, so Judah doesn’t move. Even though he knows visiting his aunt isn’t wrong, he somehow feels like he’s being disobedient. He gets the sudden urge to roll his eyes at the thought, but that would run too high of a risk if his father saw. Besides, he’s in no condition for an argument—in all honesty, he’d probably pass out.

“Alright. School night, though, so be back by eleven. No excuses,” he draws out, eyes glued to the screen. That was a much better response than Judah was expecting, so he feels himself relax. He almost wonders if he hallucinated it all and is really still face-down in his mattress.

“Yes sir,” he finally replies, breaking out of his reverie. With that, he makes his way back to the door, slipping out before his name can be called for anything else.

It’s bitingly cold outside, making his eyes begin to water as he walks down the cracked sidewalk. He loops his arms around his stomach as it protests the movement, gurgling a little more with each step. It’s almost completely dark out now, giving sharp edges to the vague feeling of loneliness that had followed him around nearly all day. The usually numbed and muted grief is rubbed raw for some reason today, and it feeds the uneasiness in his belly.

At one point, the nausea comes back heavily, actually forcing him to bend over the sidewalk and let strings of spit fall onto the grass. He dry heaves just once, willing himself to pull it together after that. The last thing he wants is a neighbor seeing him vomit in their front yard. He turns scarlet at the thought.

Picking himself back up, he brings a hand to rest on the slight bulge of his stomach, taut with sour air and food that refuses to digest. It turns, feeling thick and heavy as he continues walking as fast as his fever-aching limbs will let him. This fever is a pulsing thing, turning everything fuzzy around the edges and making him see shapes in the darkness. He begins walking with a little more purpose, the probably irrational fear making his spine drip with freezing dread.

It’s a few more blocks before he finally comes to his streetlamp-lit destination, and he almost wants to collapse right there on the front steps. His belly gives an almighty lurch, and he does all he can do to not whimper out loud.

He knocks against the swollen wood of the door and steps back. Not even a full minute later, he hears the lock click, and the door swings open to reveal his aunt. Her eyebrows shoot up and a smile pulls at her lips.

“Oh, come in, you insane child. Who in their right mind would walk six blocks in this weather just to see their ancient aunt?” she jokes, swiftly shutting the door behind him and wrapping up in a tight hug.

He holds her back just as tightly, feeling the knot in his throat thicken. The tears that wouldn’t come before are now collecting in pools that blur his vision, wobbling just before spilling over onto his cheeks. He’s absent for a few seconds, and when she pulls back, he realizes he hasn’t been breathing.

“Hey, hey...what’s all this, hm? What’s wrong?” She quickly swoops back in, gently taking his face in her hands and wiping at his cheeks.

His face feels hot from straining against the tears, and he doesn’t even know which version of the truth to tell her. His stomach hurts too much to talk right then, too. He doesn’t really know exactly why he’s crying, anyway, so he doesn’t know what to say. Even if he did know, he isn’t sure he’d be able to say it without throwing up a little.

“Okay, how about we go sit down first. C’mere,” she suggests, starting to lead him to the sun room. At this time of the evening, it becomes a bit of a sanctuary. He figures that’s why she chose it, but it’s cold. The windows are unforgiving, and he finds himself trembling even more once they’re settled. She notices, but doesn’t say anything; she simply takes the throw blanket from the back of the couch and drapes it around his shoulders. He mutters a thanks, but his voice comes out roughened and barely there. “Of course, hon. Just let me know when you’re ready to talk, okay?” He nods, but still doesn’t know how much he wants to share.

As he sits there, he’s too aware of the heavy churning in his belly, making his nausea swell. He swallows laboriously. “Can I have some water? I feel kind of sick,” he admits, sniffling.

“Sure, Jude. Is that all you need?” He nods just enough to be seen, but it still makes his head spin. “Okay, hang tight, I’ll be back in just a second.”

Sitting there on the sofa, he has no idea how he even made it to her house alive. He feels brittle and exhausted, and his stomach is so upset that he could pass out. He doesn’t know if it’s the lack of distractions or what, but he’s suddenly feeling a whole lot worse. The horrific mixture that’s been taunting his stomach all day is sitting uncomfortably high in his chest now, contorting his organs in the most unnatural way.

Before he knows it, he’s past the point of no return. His tummy swirls, pushing up into his throat with purpose now. He tries to swallow against the feeling, but he can’t, and he panics.

“Aunt Jo,” he calls out, as loud as he dares. He’s frozen in place, holding his stomach as it lurches angrily, and it feels final. He covers his mouth with his free hand just as Aunt Josie calls back with a yes? He can hear her footsteps returning, but then everything gets very fuzzy, and he feels like he’s underwater. He only just manages to mumble, “I feel like I need to throw up,” but then he’s finishing his sentence with the action, splattering hours-old lunch onto her rug.

“Oh—oh, sweetheart,” she laments, but his ears are ringing, and she sounds miles away.

He pitches forward again, releasing a heavy stream and nearly choking on it. Pockets of air get trapped between waves, and each involuntary burp only serves to bring up more of his stomach. The clenching feeling of a new heave comes on every time he finishes spitting out the contents of the last one, and he’s confident that he’s never been so sick in his life. Looking down into the puddle keeps him throwing up, so he’s grateful once a trash bin gets placed under his chin and blocks the view. It gives him almost thirty seconds of blissful peace.

Just as his guts start churning again, he feels a hand begin to rub between his shoulder blades, and then he can’t help it—he’s crying again. “M’really sorry,” he croaks in between ragged heaves, voice thick with nausea, “I just don’t feel good.”

“It’s totally okay, kiddo, sometimes you just can’t make it. You’ll feel better once it’s all out,” she comforts, and he feels her press a hand to his forehead. She sighs quietly.

He earnestly hopes she’s right, because he has to keep puking either way. The urgency pushes at his throat insatiably, making wave after wave of yellow-tinged vomit splash against the plastic bin.

“There you go, you’re gonna be alright. Couldn’t have felt good to have all that in your stomach,” she comments. She’s right, it was torture. Is torture.

The pool that’s collecting around the trash at the bottom forces him to keep his eyes shut tight, but tears inevitably still leak from the corners. He just can’t stop shaking, either, and he’s freezing down to his bones.

He still feels sick once he’s empty, and he presses into his tummy in an attempt to stop the ache. He blindly pushes the bin away just slightly with his free hand to save himself from another fit of dry-heaving. It takes a few moments after that for the lightheadedness and nausea to dull, and then he finds himself wanting to break down in childlike upset. Something hurts, and naturally, he feels like what he doesn’t have is the only way to soothe it.

“You’re thinking pretty loud there, Jude,” Aunt Josie comments, remaining steady in rubbing along his back. He feels like the gesture should make him feel better like it usually does, but frustratingly enough, he’s still reeling.

“I wish mom was here.”

It leaves his mouth like the vomit he couldn’t hold in, and the silence that follows makes him want to take it all back. Her hand stills along his spine, and the air hangs suspended for too long. There’s a sob lodged in his chest, aching and raw.

But then, he’s being pulled close to her chest, head cradled by her gentle grasp. “I do too, Jay. I really do.” And then he can’t breathe, so he has to let out the gasping sob, turning a bit to come apart in her embrace. “I know. You’re having a rough day, but it’ll be alright again. It will.”

She’s right, but he’s so spent. His stomach is gurgling less, but still sore, and his skin feels too sensitive with the impressive fever he’s sporting. He lets himself sink and feel all of it, closing his eyes against the steady thump in his head. Her sweater is somehow comfortingly scratchy against his temple, and he melts into the familiar smell of the same, fading perfume she’s used for decades.

As soon as he starts to feel alright, he remembers what day it is, and the torture continues. A low moan escapes his lips without permission. “God, I have homework, Aunt Jo,” he quietly confesses, honestly feeling like he could be sick all over again.

“Hon, there is no way you’re going to school tomorrow with a fever this high.”

“Dad won’t care.”

“Then stay here,” she says, as if it’s the most simple thing in the world. She’s probably more than tired of hearing about his dad.

“But, he said be home—“

“I’ll call him, Judah. You need to rest, so let me worry about him, okay?” She waits until he nods. “Come on, then, up you get.” After managing to help him off the couch, she sends him straight off to the guest room so she can clean.

He turns just before he’s out the door, because he finally does feel better, and she has a lot to do with it. “Thank you,” he utters, voice as small as the room.

(Emeto warning)

Grey was sitting on the floor, slotted in between his bookshelf and his bed. The sun was peeking in just right, painting over his skin with a beam of yellow warmth. It always hit there at that time of day and made it one of his favorite spots.

He was reading Black Beauty for probably the thousandth time, because today, he needed the comfort of some familiarity. When he’d woken up that morning, it had been to a sourly aching stomach, and it refused to go away. He resolved to ignore it, because if he thought about the churning discomfort for too long, he started to believe that he was actually going to throw up.

Just the thought made a syrupy feeling of dread drip down his spine every time it invaded his mind, breaking his skin out in goosebumps. It started to happen again. He brought his knees to his chest, curling further into himself and the now-fading sunbeam. He groaned, shivered yet again, and reached one hand down to knead gingerly at his belly.

Having briefly thought that the tossing feeling was emptiness, he’d made the grave mistake of eating lunch. It sat in one congealed mess at the bottom of his stomach, giving a terrible flip every now and then. He was certain that nothing was digesting, so he tried his best to help the ailing organ along.

Unsurprisingly, his efforts weren’t very helpful, so he eventually gave up and turned back to the nearly crumbling novel in his hands.

So back we went and round by the crossroads, but by the time we got to the bridge it was very nearly dark; we could just see that the water was over the middle of it—

“Fuck!” Roses’ macaw, Pilot, screeched from the living room. Grey closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Sometimes that bird really made him want to jump out of a window. He gave himself a moment and looked back down again.

So back we went and round by the crossroads, but by the time we got to the bridge—

“You’re such a good boy!” Pilot wailed. Grey steeled himself, blocking it out any way he could.

So back we went and round by the crossroads, but—

“Fuck!” Again.

Grey shut the book and set it aside, burying his face in his hands. He was two seconds away from either crying or committing murder.

“Shut up, Pi! No talking right now,” came Rose’s merciful voice. She was the only person he listened to.

Grey’s breath came out in a long puff through his fingers as he tried to calm down. He knew he should he used to this kind of noise by now, but he genuinely didn’t have the stomach for it that day.

Since he’d been distracted from reading, the cramps seemed to come back full force, tugging his insides in unnatural directions. He felt some air climb up his chest, but he swallowed it right back down, refusing to give any part of his stomach permission to come up.

He laid a hand carefully on his roiling tummy and picked up the book again with the other. He read a line, forgot what he read, and started over. This happened a few more times before the door to their bedroom swung open.

“Hey, we’re gonna leave in five. Why aren’t you dressed?” Rose asked with just an edge of frustration.

“Leave to go...?” He started, genuinely fearing the answer.

“Uh, Thanksgiving with my family? The thing I told you about weeks ago? That thing?”

“Thanksgiving was nearly a week ago, I don’t...” he trailed off, swallowing against the rising knot in his throat. “I don’t remember, I’m sorry.”

“Look, it’s fine, just get dressed a little nicer really quick, okay?”

No. “Okay.”

She gave him a soft smile and left the room, allowing the sounds of some home improvement show she was watching to float in. Grey felt a swell of emotion as he stood up and immediately cramped, being forced to double over and freeze. The only reason he didn’t completely collapse back to the floor and admit defeat was because the wave went away rather quickly by some miracle.

He didn’t want to start a fight either, and a sure-fire way to piss Rose off was flaking on plans last minute. He shuffled over to the closet and grabbed a button-down, stopping in the middle of buttoning it to clutch his belly. Another cramp was seizing his insides, but this time, it brought with it a surge of unexpected nausea.

He pressed the knuckles of his free hand to his mouth, unsure of how far this feeling was going to take him. He shuddered again, waiting for the terrible, sick hesitance in the back of his throat to stop. He dared to swallow against the feeling, hoping it wouldn’t send him into a fit of retching; he couldn’t let that happen—he wouldn’t.

He forced himself to take a deep breath as the ache finally wavered and began to dissipate. His legs were shaking with the aftershock of his panic, and the last thing he felt like he could do in this world was face Rose’s relatives.

Still feeling unsteady, he decided to cave and stumble his way to the couch. It seemed like years before he was there, trembling in front of her like a little kid who just woke up from a nightmare. Rose just looked up at him, furrowed her brows at his half-done shirt, and made a face as if to say, ‘what is it now?’

“Rosie, I just...I think I feel too sick to my stomach tonight,” he finally managed, hating the way that once he admitted something, it made it a thousand times more apparent. His lunch gave a sickening whirl right on cue.

“Don’t start that, Grey. You’ve gotta stop getting in your own head like that.” She’s usually totally right about when he’s digging himself a hole, but she couldn’t be more wrong this time. He could feel his insides trembling with a pulsing fever, and this kind of nausea only came when he was truly getting ill.

“I really don’t feel good this time, baby, please,” he nearly begged, feeling all the fight leave him rather quickly.

“You’ll feel better once we get you out of the house. Fresh air n’all that.” Grey was sure his face remained entirely unconvinced. Rose heaved a sigh. “Can we just please do this for my family? I promise we can leave early after dinner and come back to relax. You can read all you want.”

He groaned inwardly knowing he’d lost. He nodded slowly then, trying to force himself to believe that it truly was his mind doing all of this to him. Turning and going back to the room, he finished getting dressed with the speed and grace of a sleepy toddler.

It was time to leave before he even got a chance to breathe it seemed, and they were on the road in no time. Grey tried to pretend like he was still on the floor, feeling the warmth of sunlight brushing his skin. It only worked in short bursts, but he took what he could get.

Thankfully, the drive wasn’t too long, or he would have ended up puking elegantly on the side of the road. He had a few close calls, but those weren’t new.

“Is that my Rose?” came her mother’s voice from the porch where she and Rose’s grandmother sat. They had barely even stepped out of the car and he was about to vomit from exertion.

“Hi momma,” she replied, grabbing onto Grey’s hand to lead him up the driveway despite his body’s protests.

Several hello’s and too-tight hugs later, they were finally past the threshold of their house, and the smell of dinner hit Grey like one hundred freight trains. He tried to conceal the fact that he had to abort several gags, and he resolved to breathe through his mouth for the duration of the visit. He didn’t know how he would ever get through dinner, but he decided he would cross that bridge when he came to it.

He found it terribly difficult to engage in small-talk, even more so than usual. Each time he was prompted to respond about something school or career-related, he feared that more than words would come out. He’d started to sweat, too, but he assumed that was just his fever breaking.

Rose’s claim that he would feel better once they got out of the house was also proving entirely false as he’d unfortunately predicted. As time wore on, he somehow felt even fuller. The tossing in his stomach had escalated to full-on ocean swells, and he had to find creative ways to rub it without anyone noticing.

The air that had threatened to come up earlier was also a constant pressure now, refusing to travel back to his stomach. It got to the point where he couldn’t physically hold it in anymore, so he brought a fist to his mouth and muffled the sound, hoping it would make him feel better.

Spoiler alert—it didn’t. At all.

Instead, it brought up a sour taste and the feeling of something wavering dangerously close to the back of his throat. He swallowed convulsively, trying to remain calm. The bubbling in his stomach didn’t stop either, making a nightmare mixture sort of feeling when the cramps hit again.

That’s when they finally all got called to the table, and he begged the universe for some mercy. “Rosie, I can’t do it, my belly hurts. Please don’t make me,” he whispered, falling back from the group.

“I’m not gonna make you, babe. I just wish you could enjoy this and not have to worry,” she said, rubbing a gentle circle across his stomach and chest. After a few seconds, she turned and continued to walk towards the table.

“But I’m not just worrying,” he protested quietly to no one. He inwardly cursed every time in the past where meeting Rose’s family had made his stomach nervous. Talk about crying wolf. There was really no other option then but to tough it out and go sit down.

He felt a renewed sense of optimism and perseverance for some reason as he took his seat next to Rose. That lasted all of ten glorious seconds before the food began to be dumped onto everyone’s plates.

The food that usually made Grey wish he had three stomachs now made him wish he didn’t even have one—especially this defective one set in reverse. The look of the food suddenly turned morbid, and he got intrusive thoughts of these animals that once used be alive. A twist in his guts made heat burn against his esophagus, and he panicked, bringing his water glass to his lips and forcing a bit down to put out the fire.

He hoped he didn’t look as deathly ill as he felt when he glanced at his finally full plate, but it was probably an empty desire. Not wanting to seem to suspicious, he began to take small bites, swallowing them almost immediately so he wouldn’t have to taste too much.

Another wave of goosebumps erupted across his skin, and he wondered if it was cold enough in the room to merit them or not. He was distracted by this thought for long enough that he hadn’t even realized he’d eaten more.

Even though only about half of the plate was gone, he came to the swift conclusion that he was about to burst into a million tiny pieces. The sounds and smells became too much, each taking their turn giving his stomach a roaring stir. His breath caught with a hiccup, and he felt his dinner start to come back on him.

This is not happening. Do not throw up. Do not throw up. Do not, he inwardly chanted over and over, as if that would actually manifest healing. It felt like an eternity, but it was probably only a few seconds before things really went south.

There was a new feeling in the back of his throat that kept his mouth open just slightly. He felt like everyone was looking at him; he needed to stop, but he couldn’t. He felt dizzy with all of the conversations merging and overlapping one another, and he could feel everything he’d eaten merging in the most unholy way.

He took one glance at the remains of his plate and that was it. An upsurge of thick warmth had him standing in an instant, pushing back his chair with the force. “Excuse me,” he managed to spit out before bailing from the room as fast as his legs would carry him.

Having purposely noted where the restroom was as soon as he’d arrived, he knew it was on the other side of the house. He had no hope of making it there before he would be sick and, he couldn’t risk being violently ill on their carpet. The front door was his only option, so he fumbled to pull it open, choking on the dreadful mixture that entered his mouth.

As soon as he was outside, he bent over the porch railing and let his partially digested dinner come right back up. He instantly regretted his previous choice to not chew very well, because each time a thick wave of sick left his mouth, the horrible texture immediately triggered another heave.

He held onto that railing like a lifeline each time he retched, repeatedly coating the ground below him in a greasy layer of stomach contents. He heard the door open behind him and hoped against hope that it was Rose.

“Oh, hon, I’m so sorry. This is my fault.” She came up behind him and rubbed along his spine as he shook with another deep retch. He felt the flames of mortification lick up his cheeks, and tears rimmed at the edges of his eyes; he refused to let them fall. He gurgled out another heavy stream of vomit, coughing raggedly afterward to get the feeling out of his throat. Static prickled in his vision as his fever most likely came to a peak. He felt fuzzy and uncomfortable, unsure of what was really going on anymore.

“I threw up, Ro,” he managed to whimper, leaning forward again and definitely bringing up his lunch from hours earlier.

“I see that, baby. You don’t have to to talk until you’re done, okay?” She brought her hand up to gently take off his glasses so that they wouldn’t fall off and become collateral damage. He rolled forward with yet another heave. He was crippled with the kind of insatiable nausea that only came when he had the stomach flu. And boy, did he have it bad this time. “Breathe, Grey...God, I’m terrible for bringing you here. You’re breaking my heart, sweet love,” she mumbled lowly.

His stomach never quite stopped lurching, but his heaves were no longer productive after a few minutes, so he figured he was done. He wiped at his eyes and dropped his head down to rest on his arms, letting Rose pet through his hair as he attempted to put himself back together.

“M’really sorry for ruining tonight.” His voice came out raw.

“Hey, don’t even try to apologize, none of this is your fault at all.” He let out a gritty hum as a reply. “Do you feel any better at least?”

He kept his head buried the crook of his arm and finally shook it slowly. He did not feel better in the slightest—just emptier. It felt like someone had carved a hole in his stomach and squeezed everything out with white-knuckles fists.

(Emeto warning)

Ezra swung the door to Seven’s apartment closed with a little more force than usual but didn’t even flinch at the sound it made. He was more than ready to rant today, so as soon as he made it into the living room, he started.

“You will not believe the kind of shit I went through with Parker today! When I left my room, it took him all of five seconds to get—“ He paused, a frown settling on his features as he looked down at the empty couch. In his rage, he hadn’t even noticed that the apartment wasn’t filled with its usual stream of music either.

He stayed frozen there for a second, flicking his eyes between the empty cushions and the abandoned bowl of popcorn on the table. “Seven?” he tried with some hesitance. Nothing. He could’ve sworn that he was supposed to be off of work by then.

He made his way to the kitchen then, and there was a solitary, half-full glass of water on the countertop. It almost looked like Seven had left suddenly. That thought made Ezra a little uneasy, so he tried to push that thought out of his mind as he made his way to the bedroom.

The door was shut, which was also not normal, so Ezra gave an awkward little knock. “Seven?” he tried one last time. Still nothing. He let out an uneven sigh and finally gave the handle a slow twist, revealing nothing but pitch-black darkness.

He figured he would accidentally kill himself if he tried to stumble to the bed, and there was still no acknowledgement of his presence; he felt he had no other option but to flick on the light.

When he did, it revealed a very Seven-shaped lump hidden under the blankets. He felt himself relax a bit knowing that he was home, but it still didn’t sit right that he wasn’t answering. The feeling clenched a little at his lungs as he stepped closer, finally pulling back the duvet.

Seven was completely knocked out, curled into himself, and paler than Ezra had ever seen him—and that’s saying something. The only color that graced his face was a blotchy scarlet across his cheekbones, and that told Ezra all he needed to know. He fought between letting him sleep and seeing if he needed anything before ultimately deciding on the latter.

Reaching out a careful hand, he placed it gently on Seven’s fever-hot cheek and began to brush his thumb there. “Hey, Sev? Can you wake up for me, babe?” he asked softly, hoping that he was still loud enough to wake him.

Thankfully, Seven began to stir, a low moan escaping through his parted lips. He slowly opened his eyes, but they looked fairly glassy and disoriented. When they finally settled on Ezra’s face, he actually looked like he might cry, which didn’t happen often at all.

“Ez?” His voice came out rough, but that wasn’t a surprise.

“Hi, V. How are you feeling?” He only received another drawn-out groan in response. “Yeah, I figured as much. You’re absolutely scorching, babe. Is there anything I can get for you, like medicine, or tea, or...?”

He paused, because it looked like Seven might have something to say. Instead, he pitched forward and copiously vomited over the edge of the bed. Ezra recoiled a bit in an attempt to avoid the stream, but he just wasn’t fast enough; he was painted from the thighs down with puke. Seven only retched again, adding to the puddle near Ezra’s feet. The nearest bin was all the way in the bathroom, so he decided there was really no use in trying to retrieve it now.

“Oh, Sev. It’s gonna be alright,” he soothed, hearing Seven’s breathing turn more ragged between heaves. It seemed like he was really struggling to keep everything in, choking and sputtering when each wave inevitably forced itself from his mouth. “Just let it come on out, okay? I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

Ezra took a seat on the edge of the bed, sneaking a hand under Seven’s damp t-shirt and rubbing circles on his back. Each time Ezra thought he might be done, yet another gurgle of sick would splatter against the hardwood. The streams eventually became thicker as his stomach purged the last of his lunch, and they seemed to require much more violent heaves. Ezra winced at every one, especially when they started to become particularly sharp-sounding empty ones.

The gaps between bouts of heaving gradually became longer, and a few minutes into one of his longest, Ezra decided it was time to try and make a dent in the mess. Seven was still hanging over the soiled sheets, trembling with the effort of holding himself halfway upright. “You okay?“ Seven shook his head very slowly, a thick string of saliva still clinging to his bottom lip.

Right, stupid question, Ezra thought briefly.

“Sorry, I know. Um, do you think you’re finished?” In response, Seven gave a minute nod, still refusing to make eye contact. Ezra didn’t blame him, but he just wished there was some way he could reassure him that he didn’t have to feel embarrassed. He sighed softly. “Alright, I’m gonna help you get to the shower then, it’ll make you feel better. C’mere.”

He supported Seven’s weight as he struggled to sit up fully. He finally pulled the vomit-soaked shirt over his head, holding back his own urge to heave. He was also making every effort to ignore the sticky, sour warmth seeping through the front of his jeans.

Once he got Seven to his feet, he let him lean into his side as they made the short trek to the bathroom. Even though it was only a few feet away, it felt like quite a journey to both boys. When they finally made it in, he let Seven sit on the toilet lid and turned on the water.

Leaving only for a moment to gather a change of clothes, he returned to find his boyfriend hunched over and shaking where he’d left him. The sight of him looking so vulnerable made the fist around Ezra’s heart tighten, and he approached him carefully. He began to brush his fingers through the back of his sleep-ruffled hair and rub down his back.

Seven leaned in to bury his face against Ezra’s tummy and groaned, looping his arms loosely around his own stomach. Ezra really didn’t know what he could say to make any of it better, so he just continued to soothe him any way he knew how.

When the water finally got warm, they laboriously finished undressing and climbed in. Without a word, Ezra began to gently wash Seven’s still trembling body, rubbing the cloth across his middle with a little extra care. He closed his eyes and leaned against the tiles, pressing his surely fuming forehead against them to get some relief.

Ezra was almost finished rinsing out his hair when Seven spoke up. It was nothing more than a murmur against the steady stream of water.

“Hm?“

“I need to get out,” he repeated, still in a mumble. “M’dizzy.”

“Oh,” was all Ezra could supply in lieu of a proper response. He turned around and shut off the water, reaching out for their towels on the rack.

They were only half dry before things dipped back downhill. Ezra noticed that Seven was leaning against the countertop, not even making an effort at drying himself off anymore.

“I know you’re tired, baby, but we gotta get dried off before you can sleep.”

“Ezra,” was his only response. It was a strained, wobbly sound, and it caught Ezra off guard a bit.

“What’s the matter?” He was given no answer. Seven swayed a bit and leaned forward. “Hey, don’t pass out on me, V,” he very nearly begged, stepping behind him to help hold him up just in case.

Fortunately, he didn’t faint, but what he did do was bend over and spray the faucet with a stream of yellow-tinted bile.

“Oh shit—uh, okay. It’s okay.” Seven let out what could only be a sort of whimper.

“S—“ A hiccuping, choked retch hitched in his chest. “M’sorry.”

“No, no, I didn’t mean to curse, Sev, it’s totally fine. You really don’t have to apologize, just let it happen,” he reassured, inwardly cringing at how bad he was at this stuff. He pulled Seven’s towel from around his shoulders and began to finish drying him off so he could get to rest sooner. He rubbed the fabric softly up and down the curve of his back as it lurched with heaves.

He finally caught his breath after a few minutes, and Ezra reached around to wipe his mouth with some toilet paper. He remained gentle so he wouldn’t start him up again, but he began to rub his tummy, alternating between going in circles and rubbing back and forth. They stayed silent like that for a moment, and Ezra figured he needed a moment to recover.

“I’m done,” he finally croaked, voice breaking despite the short phrase. Ezra nodded, and they finished getting dressed slowly.

The walk out to the couch was a lazy one, ending with Seven finally collapsing into the cushions. He glanced at the popcorn bowl and groaned, getting his message across perfectly. Ezra pulled it off the table in one swift motion, placing the bin he’d stolen from the bathroom down at the side of the couch at the same time.

Seven curled onto his side, folding his arms over his mercifully empty belly. Ezra momentarily left to retrieve an extra blanket from the closet and the rest of his forgotten water from the kitchen. When he returned, Seven was almost out cold already.

Ezra draped the blanket over his body and smiled sadly; he looked so young like that. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his temple.

“Got you some water, it’s here if you want it, but I’m not gonna make you drink any just yet.” Seven only hummed lowly in response. “Get some rest. I hope you can sleep off whatever this is.”

“Thanks, Ezzy...’nd yeah,” he breathed out, words forming lazily, “I probably shoulda’ been a little more careful when Mrs. T was sick at work las’ week.”

warning: graphic descriptions of vomiting, carsickness, and some descriptions of a panic attack

The drive to the lake house always seemed a little too long for Ezra, but he usually managed to keep himself occupied enough. Some trips it was with music, others flew by with layered conversations, but this time, his body was bent on dragging out the minutes with pure torture.

He’d spent the first twenty minutes or so listening to Seven and Rose argue about who would be picking the music, and as usual as their bickering was, it made his head begin to pound. He found himself staring intently out the window afterwards, feeling generally uneasy. Unfortunately, that was a usual occurrence anytime he rode in a car for more than fifteen straight minutes. He hated how weak carsickness had always made him feel, but he’d thankfully gotten it more under control as he grew older.

All of that progress melted away once they reached the forty minute mark, and he found himself feeling just like he did as five year old, trembling with discomfort and paling by the second. The slow stirring in his belly had quickly turned into tidal waves, rolling over and over relentlessly. Whoever said having something in your stomach helps with carsickness was dead wrong, and no one could convince Ezra otherwise.

He didn’t dare take his eyes off of the horizon, fearing that one wrong move would send his breakfast hurtling to his feet. He cringed at the mental picture and pinched at the skin on his thigh, finding that as his only functioning distraction. He’d come to the conclusion several minutes ago that he should’ve already told someone, because at that point, it had become hard to imagine speaking. Looking away from the window long enough to hold a conversation would certainly be the end of him.

They’d somehow settled on playing Rose’s music, so Seven had been sulking a bit, looking out his own window in the times Ezra was able to take his gaze from the tree line. For some reason, the music only seemed to intensify the relative silence underneath, and Ezra’s unease grew. He just wanted to be out of the damn car, but there was still at least an hour and a half left to go. Dread seeped down to join the congealed mess in his stomach, bringing him just that much closer to giving in.

His belly curled queasily under his sweaty palm, gurgling in that certain way which he knew was always bad news. Swallowing down the sticky feeling in his throat, he decided to wait until the song went off to request that they pull over. That way, he wouldn’t have to yell and risk pushing up the burbling contents of his stomach.

It’s just his luck that Rose was in the middle of playing the longest fucking song he’d ever heard. His heart felt like it was straining in his chest, making him break out in a nervous sweat. His throat constricted, and he felt a sudden loss of control, signaling that it was no longer a question of whether or not he was going to vomit, but when and where.

Fuck it, he thought, as the song once again crescendoed in time with the rising of his nausea. He was not going to be able to wait—no way.

He let out a short hum to test his voice, finding it thankfully less wobbly than he’d expected. He took a deep breath, praying that when he spoke, he wouldn’t give in to the strong urge to heave that sat unmoving in the back of his throat. “Grey,” he managed, voice sounding a little too pinched. The song roared on, and Grey didn’t respond. He was about to try again when a cool hand landed on his thigh.

“What’d you say?” Came Seven’s voice, just a bit gritty from disuse.

“Need Grey...to pull over.” He would’ve elaborated, but Seven knew him well enough, and he also couldn’t seem to reign in the newest wave of nausea.

“Oh. Is it bad today?”

Ezra couldn’t do anything but nod carefully, feeling every last bit of color leave his face. His stomach squeezed inside of him, and he brought a hand to his mouth. He rolled forward, his cheeks suddenly puffing out with thankfully nothing but a short burst of air.

“Shit. Grey! Gonna need you to pull over right now.”

“Huh?”

Ezra’s panic grew. His stomach pulsed threateningly.

“I said pull over! Z’s going to throw up,” he repeated desperately, and Ezra could hear his shuffling movements as he probably searched for some sort of bag. If he wasn’t filled to the brim with nausea, Ezra would feel guilty for not preparing. It had just been so long since he’d actually lost the battle, so the thought simply hadn’t crossed his mind.

“What? Fuck, I—we’re in the carpool lane, I-I can’t cross yet, there’s-“

“Forget about the lines, Grey, just go!” Rose cut in, and Seven layered over her voice with a similar message.

“There’s literally a—“

“Go!”

“Fine!” Grey finally caved, and Ezra felt the car slightly jerk to change lanes. The combination of the arguing and the car’s movements made him feel exponentially worse, and he began silently begging to just disappear. He swallowed again, feeling the swirling heat start to climb in his throat. It splashed against the back of his throat despite his efforts, and he coughed at the acidic burn that followed.

Rose cursed when she heard him hacking and urged Grey to hurry up. However, not even a second later, the sound of a siren wailing briefly sliced through the air. Bright blue lights caught in their mirrors, and a stifling blanket of dread fell upon everyone in the car.

“Fucking fires of hell,” Rose bit, and Grey could only let out a small noise of distress. Seven stayed silent next to him.

Ezra’s guilt compounded, and that’s when his stomach decided that it had been through enough. A heave thundered up his throat, and on the first try, he brought up the foul remains of his sickly-sweet breakfast. The vomit coated his hands and splattered against the floorboard, earning a miserable, shaking moan from Grey.

Seven’s hand began to glide across his back, but nothing could quell the horrible, sticky churning of his insides. Another rush of completely unrecognizable orange juice and waffles burst from his mouth forcefully, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

He could hear Rose comforting Grey, which made him feel like shit, because this was the last thing Grey deserved. Ezra groaned as they finally came to a stop, just before he had to pitch forward to vomit again. His stomach turned as if to say this isn’t over and he hiccuped against the terrible feeling, willing himself not to get upset—which was a tall order, given the fact that this was entirely his fault.

He was drawn from his thoughts when Seven leaned in. “It’s okay, Ez, just take it easy. We know you can’t help it,” he reassured softly, just as the cop approached the window.

Grey rolled it down, and when Ezra spared a glance at him, he saw the trembling of his hand as it came to rest back in his lap. The guilt washed over him again in the form of a fresh bout of sickness.

“License and registration,” the officer said, voice faltering just a bit, and Ezra knew he must have made the car smell revolting. He tried to hold it in out of sheer embarrassment, but he just really had to throw up again, and the action of holding it back only made him retch more violently. His breakfast was coming out thin and brown now, making sickening sounds as it landed on the already soaked fabric below him.

He felt dizzy with exertion, so he closed his eyes and let Seven’s cold skin brushing circles at the base of his neck keep his mind occupied. He heard some shuffling of papers from up front, and then Grey’s wavering voice.

“Here, sir,” he managed to say, but Ezra knew he didn’t sound like himself. His brain started on a cycle of Poor Grey, and the relief in his stomach didn’t feel much like relief when he felt like such a colossal burden.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” came the officers voice after a few beats.

“Yes, um, yes sir. I know I wasn’t supposed to cross until the HOV lines were dotted, but um, my—my friend back there was getting really carsick, so, I...I didn’t know what to do, sir. I apologize.” The more he talked, the more it sounded like he was going to cry, and that brought Ezra’s nausea back with a crushing weight. It pushed against his chest and he found himself folding over even further somehow, retching from deep in his stomach.

“Jeez, kid. You alright back there?” The officer gritted out, and Ezra hated how much he was affecting everyone around him. Still, he managed to nod perceptibly, keeping his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to face all of reality just yet. “Alright, well. I’m going to go back and quickly process your info, but I’ll let you all off with a warning today, okay?”

“Oh, God...thank you, sir,” came Grey’s voice immediately, breaking several times in the process.

As soon as he walked away, Rose was back to putting his pieces together again, but they all knew it wouldn’t be easy. Grey’s anxiety centered around both getting in trouble and vomiting, so Ezra had successfully fostered what was sure to be the beginnings of a panic attack. Ezra was so grateful for Seven in that moment, because if he would’ve had to deal with shouldering that weight on his own, he would be scarred. He still might be.

“Sev,” he breathed out, just shy of a whimper.

“I know, Ez. It’s gonna be alright, I promise. How are you feeling?”

“Disgusting. And like a total dick,” he rasped truthfully.

“He’ll be okay. No one’s mad at you, babe.” He felt Seven scoot closer, and a steadying arm came to wrap around his shoulders. He welcomed the feeling, trying to drown out the hitched breaths coming from the front seat.

After the cop returned his license and registration, he told them they were free to go, and Grey spilled his gratitude once more with tremors in his words. When the ordeal was finally over, Ezra looked up to see Grey’s face crumple. His chest hitched with held-back sobs, and Rose leaned over the console to wipe away every tear that fell.

“I tr—I tried to tell you guys there was a—was a cop next to us,” he hiccuped, his breathing choppy and labored.

“You did, baby, I’m sorry. But, hey, that wasn’t so bad, yeah? No ticket, and Ezra’s all finished, aren’t you, Ez? You feel better?” Rose prompts, and Ezra knows better than to say actually my stomach sort of hurts, and I can’t promise that I won’t puke again soon, so he just opts for a half-truth.

“I do feel better right now, Grey. I’m really fucking sorry I didn’t warn you in time, I swear I would’ve asked earlier if I remembered what that feeling meant before it was too late. And I’m sorry about your car, too, I promise I’ll clean it. I just messed up, Rey, I can’t apologize enough.” No matter what he said, he couldn’t seem to make any of it better.

“It’s—it’s okay,” is all Grey could seem to get out after a long moment, but Ezra understood the difficulty of talking mid-panic attack.

The car was quiet then, buzzing only with muted, soothing words from Seven and Rose. Eventually, Rose took Grey’s spot, because he still wasn’t feeling quite up to driving, and they thankfully headed towards the nearest gas station to clean up.

warning: emeto mentions, alcohol consumption, and graphic descriptions of vomit

(Another long one, oops!)

Arlo had just finished writing the longest essay of his life. His eyes felt like they were bleeding, and his brain was officially out of commission for the rest of the year. He closed his laptop and fell back onto his bed, planning to stay right there for the remainder of the night.

However, those plans quickly changed when his door flung open, revealing Judah. He looked pissed enough that Arlo remained still, waiting for the snap. He watched as he went right for the chair in the corner, slinging his backpack off his shoulder and unzipping it. He closed his eyes, huffed out a breath, and then finally looked over at Arlo. They stared at each other for a few seconds before Judah broke the gaze and focused back on his backpack.

“Bad day?” Arlo ventured to ask when it seemed like Judah wasn’t going to say anything.

“Bad life.”

“Hey, careful. We’ve talked about this, Jude. What is it?” Arlo asked, a frown settling on his features as he pushed himself up to sit back against the wall.

“I know, sorry. Just a lot of shitty stuff with dad this morning. Shitty day at school,” he mumbled. “It...it would’ve been their anniversary.” The air hung thickly for a moment.

“Oh, Judah. I’m sorry.” He felt like there was nothing he could do or say that would help, because he just didn’t understand what that kind of stuff was like; he knew his own life had been too easy.

“Don’t be, it’s not your fault. It is what it is, right?” He gave a crooked smile. “Besides,” he said then, lightening a bit. “I brought a present for us.”

“Hmm?” Arlo scooted to the edge of the bed, forcing his eyes to stay open. Judah needed him to be awake tonight.

Instead of answering, he reached into his backpack and pulled out a full bottle of vodka. A shit-eating grin appeared on his face as he looked at Arlo and held it like a trophy. Any trace of the broken boy he’d seen seconds before was gone, replaced with what Arlo had come to know as Judah’s shield from the world. Arlo’s eyebrows raised, and he said nothing, because words just wouldn’t form. He felt a little nervous if he was being honest.

“What’s that face for? This is life’s best medicine,” Judah laughed, standing up from the chair and coming to join him on the bed.

“Um,” Arlo breathes out, trying to find the right words. “I’ve just...I haven’t.” A blush crept up his neck at that, and he suddenly felt like maybe he should have just acted normal. Judah’s smile faded, and he never wanted to be the reason for that.