#wiseinnerwhispers

When Angel found Bel heaving his guts up in the bathroom of the club, he tried to urge Bel to go home and rest. It took a minute for Bel to find his voice, his stomach clearly still warring with him, but once he’d regained his composure he’d insisted that he was fine.

“Probably just nerves,” he said, which was a complete lie. Angel had known Bel for years, and there was nothing the boy was more comfortable doing than being up on stage.

He also knew that once Bel set his mind to something, there was no changing it. And so Angel let it go, going about his business of making sure the dancers were ready to go on once their shifts started.

He didn’t seek Bel out again until it was nearly time for Bel to go on stage. After asking some of the other dancers, he was directed to the back halls of the club. Sure enough, Bel was there, sitting slumped against the wall and visibly shaking. And somehow he still smiled when Angel knelt in front of him.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Angel echoed, looking him over. “Have you been sick again? You look pale.”

“A little,” Bel admitted, smiling sheepishly. Angel saw his throat bob as he swallowed convulsively, one hand straying tellingly toward his stomach. “I guess it’s not just nerves after all.”

“I guess not,” Angel agreed. “Come on, I think it’s time we get you home. They won’t miss you for one night.” He took Bel by the hand and helped him up, letting the violet-haired dancer lean heavily against him.

“I think I’m going to be sick again...” Bel moaned, his head lolling against Angel’s shoulder. As if to emphasis this, Angel felt Bel’s shoulders jump with a queasy hiccup.

“Let’s get you to the bathroom then,” Angel said gently, steering Bel in that direction. No sooner had they entered the tiny bathroom than Bel was heaving, bringing up a surprisingly large gush of vomit into the toilet. Angel winced, easing Bel down to his knees as he continued to purge.

For @wiseinnerwhispers .  

The happiest of happy birthdays to you, Lee.  You’re an asset to the community, and I don’t know what I would do without you.  Thank you for the perfect prompt.  I hope you’re having the best day, despite being sick XD.

Powers/No Powers (I love it as much as you do)

_____

Bucky pours himself a second cup of coffee and settles at the kitchen table.  He pulls up the newspaper on his laptop, but he can only half-focus on the articles.  It’s Saturday morning, and Bucky’s yet to make any plans.

It’s not like there’s any pressure to be out and about.  Steve had left an hour ago to go for a run with Sam.  He’d kissed Bucky’s cheek and said they’d figure out their weekend schedule when he got back.

Bucky minimizes the news site and pulls up a list of things to do in DC instead.  It’s long and imposing and full of outdoor concerts and other sure-to-be-crowded summer essentials.  He’s overcome with a desire to curl up and swear off recreational outings for the rest of his life.  He’s been so much better about leaving the house lately.  Bucky wonders if Steve will be disappointed.

He reaches for his coffee, but his phone chirps, and he picks it up instead.

Sam:  Just a heads up.  I sent ur boy home.

Bucky frowns and taps a message back.  Why?  Everything ok?

Sam: IDK if he got overheated or something, but he does not look good.

Bucky: K thanks.

Bucky drains his coffee in one gulp.  Steve’s hardly ever sick.  And he looked fine when he left.

Bucky shuts his laptop.  He doesn’t know what Steve will want, so he loads bottled water and Gatorade from the pantry into the fridge and moves a stack of TV guides off the end of the sofa.  He’s a little relieved he’s off the hook for making plans.  But now he’s worried.

Even though Bucky’s expecting it, the sound of the front door opening makes him jump.  He sets down his third cup of coffee as Steve rounds the corner into the kitchen.  “Hey.  You alright?” he asks.

Steve’s nearly as pale as his white t-shirt.  Patches of sweat ring his neck and extend under his arms.  “Yeah, I’m ok,” he says, though his voice is thin.

“Sam was right.  You don’t look so good.”

“What, he texted you?”  Steve shakes his head and wipes perspiration from his brow.  “I’m fine.  Just…got tired.”

Alarm bells go off in Bucky’s head.  He tries to keep his tone normal.  “You never get tired.”

Steve shrugs.  “Eh.  I don’t know.”

“You want some breakfast, maybe?” Bucky offers.  He gestures to Steve’s usual seat at the table.  He wishes Steve would sit down.  He looks ready to drop.

“No, thanks,” Steve says.  “I’m…not hungry.”

“You sure you’re ok?”  Bucky’s eyebrows knit together in concern.  “You’re never like this.”

“I know.  I’m alright.”  Steve steps around Bucky and opens the refrigerator.  He pauses before reaching for a water bottle.  “It’s hot out, though.”

“Well, it’s summer,” Bucky says lamely, taking in the fine tremor wracking Steve’s hand as he uncaps the water and takes a sip.

“Yeah.  I guess.”  Steve shuts the fridge, but doesn’t let go of the handle.

“Go sit down,” Bucky urges.  “We’ll wait a little and see if you get hungry, I guess.”  He means at the table, but Steve passes him again and heads for the couch.

“You really sure?”  Bucky can’t stop himself from asking again.  “You don’t seem all that ok.”

“Yeah…”  Steve sinks gingerly into the cushions.  “I just want to rest a minute.”

“Ok,” Bucky says quietly, doubt creeping into his voice.  He thinks about topping off his coffee again, but the last thing he needs are more jitters.  He abandons his mug beside the sink and joins Steve in the living room.

Bucky turns to ask him if he wants to watch TV, but Steve’s breathing evenly with his elbow on the armrest and his head in his hand.  Sweat still glistens on his upper lip and around his hairline.  Bucky hovers his hand over the back of Steve’s neck, and heat radiates off him.  “Jesus Christ, Stevie,” he mutters.

Bucky doesn’t want to disturb him when he’s dozing, so he turns the TV on low volume and watches If Walls Could Talk with one eye while he keeps the other on Steve.  His shoulders rise and fall slightly with each breath.  Bucky wonders if has the flu.

That would be odd, though.  It’s the wrong season, and Steve never gets sick anyway.  And this came on suddenly.  Steve was his usual chipper self this morning.  Bucky doesn’t think he could’ve missed something like this.

Steve’s breath hitches, and his complexion goes grey.

“You alright, Stevie?”  Bucky pats his knee, and even the exposed skin of his leg is hot and clammy.

“Hm.”  Steve sits up groggily.  He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something, but instead he gags, sending a dribble of yellowish bile down his front.  He clamps one hand over his mouth and jerks forward as he retches again.

“Whoa, ok.”  Bucky wraps his arm around Steve’s shoulders.  “Do you think you can make it into the toilet?”

Steve doesn’t answer, but he uses the armrest to haul himself to his feet.  He leans heavily against Bucky as they weave behind the couch and toward the downstairs bathroom.  Bucky embeds his hand in Steve’s t-shirt and presses his stump arm into his shoulder from behind to keep him upright.

“Alright, there you go.”  Bucky guides Steve to his knees, but he’s too slow to let go of him and get the toilet seat up before Steve vomits again.  He scrambles for the trash can wedged under the sink while Bucky keeps him from face-planting.

“Good enough, I guess,” Bucky mumbles.  He rubs circles between Steve’s shoulder blades.  Sweat comes through the fabric of his shirt, and fiery warmth radiates into Bucky’s palm.

“You got chills or something?” Bucky asks.  “You’re boiling.”

“I feel like I’m boiling…”  Steve spits into the trashcan and coughs weakly.

“Ok, hold on.”  Bucky tears the hand towel down from its ring and runs it under the faucet.  He turns the water as cold as it will go, and he hopes it’s good enough.  He does his best to wring the towel out one-handed, but it still drips across the floor as he takes it back to Steve.

“How far did you run?”  Bucky drapes the compress over the back of Steve’s neck.

“Huh?”

“With Sam.  How far did you go?  You were gone for like an hour and a half.”

“I don’t know…”  Steve wipes his mouth with the back of one shaking hand.

“You weren’t counting or you don’t remember?”  Bucky bites his lip.  “’Cause both are pretty unlike you.”

“I just…don’t know.”  Steve swallows hard.  “I…don’t feel very good.”

“Yeah, I got that part.”  Bucky almost laughs, but the worry dominating his brain won’t let him.  “I bet you pushed yourself too hard.  You gotta let up sometimes.  If you’ve got, like, heat exhaustion or something…”  He breaks off, shaking his head.

“Hm.”  Steve twitches and tightens his grip on the trash can.

Bucky flips the towel over to press the cooler side to Steve’s skin.  “Is this helping?”

“I don’t know.”  He tries to swallow a sick hiccup.

“Ok, let’s try something else…”  Bucky trusts Steve to stay upright for the moment, and he reaches to turn on the shower.  He gets a face-full of spray as he tests the temperature, but quickly shakes it off and extends his hand to Steve.  “Come on.”

“I…think I’m still gonna throw up,” Steve pants.  “And I have…clothes on.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky says.  “Come on.”  Steve acquiesces, and Bucky manhandles him over the lip of the tub.  “Sit down before you fall down, too.  I don’t trust you so much right now.”

“I got it,” Steve grumbles, tipping his head back so the cool water splashes over his face.

“You always got it,” Bucky says, sitting on the floor and leaning over the edge of the tub.

since @wiseinnerwhispers wanted to ask about my chara-in-progress, I figured I’d let y’all know what I’ve got so far

-his name is Ryan -he’s got long platinum blond hair and heterochromia -he’s got a toned athletic build and v pale skin -he’s the bastard son of Reginald Raycraft (one of many bastards for that matter) -he’s a dancer, and does mainly ballroom and ballet -he’s kind of a spoiled ass, and a major mama’s boy -he’s got a little sister who he’s p close with

((It was really interesting trying to find a way to make this work with Rhys’s aphasia, but I think we did it! Written with @sugar-me-sick. Julien is her character))

Rhys had never seen Julien in such a bad mood.

A "shit mood" as Florence had been putting it. It sounded harsh, but she had her right to call him out. Julien had been under a lot of stress. There was something about his family that he was dealing with, plus work and appointments. His ADHD made getting a grasp on his stress difficult, and he really was being rude, whether he meant it or not. But then again, Flo had a habit of jumping in when she wasn't needed.

Him and Flo had been snipping at each other all afternoon while trying to finish chores. There was a loud noise in the middle of their arguing from the kitchen, and the sudden clattering of dishes on the counter making Rhys nearly jump out of his seat in the living room. As much as he wanted to stay out of it, maybe it was best if he at least attempted to mediate things.

"Dios maldito, Flo, vete, I don't want to hear it!" he snapped at her, just as Rhys was walking into the room. She argued back with him, and the way Julien’s accent sounded thicker was a good sign that he was getting flustered. They knew enough to tell what he was saying, and the angry look on Flo's face said it all. She was getting fed up, absolutely fuming as Rhys walked in.

It took them a moment to even notice that he was standing there, and once they did, they paid him little mind, going right back into their argument. Flo was starting to tear up, like she did when she was exceptionally angry or frustrated. Rhys moved to her side, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“Jules,” he said, frowning.

"Rhys," he replied indignantly, trying to break eye contact with either one of them. He knew Florence was getting upset, and he held his head in his hands as it ached. "...Just leave me alone," he groaned.

Flo spun on her heel and stormed out of the room, ignoring when Rhys called after her. Rhys huffed a sigh, turning back to Julien. One problem at a time.

“Julien,” he tried again, speaking gently.

He didn't respond at first, until Rhys kept moving closer. "Seriously, go away..." he whined, leaning against the counter heavily.

“...You okay?” Rhys asked, placing a hand on Julien’s back.

"I don't feel good," he admitted, obviously having worked himself up. Rhys knew very well that he handled his stress poorly. Unfortunately, he took it out on them.  

Rhys gave an understanding nod, rubbing his hand down Julien’s back. “Can’t...can’t do that,” he admonished gently.

"She wouldn't give me time to think," he muttered in defense. "She knows I'm not feeling good, I told her to stop bothering me..." he kept on, starting to ramble.

“Jules,” Rhys said, gentle but firm. “Should sleep.”

"I don't think I can, Rhys..." He shook his head. "I just wanna sit down and think... God, I'm making myself sick. There's just so much to do," he whined, frustrated.

“Help you,” Rhys offered.

Julien let out an irritable groan, starting to lose his reason to argue. Starting to feel bad for how he's been acting. Out of nowhere, he carefully pushed Rhys out of the way, hurrying himself over to the kitchen sink. He coughed behind his hand until he had his head over the sink, immediately coming up with mouthful of vomit.

Rhys was at his side in a moment, his hands skittering worriedly over Julien’s back. “Jules?”

"Mmh," Julien put his elbows on the edge of the sink, holding his head in his hands as he tried to hold back being sick again. He was so tense under Rhys hands, and he gave in to another wave of it, throwing up all he had into the sink. Rhys made a sympathetic sound, his hand moving across his back in a soothing rhythm. He’d seen Julien stressed before, but not like this. He waited until Julien’s heaving tapered off before coaxing him away from the sink and into a chair at the kitchen table.

If the stress hadn't done a number on him already, that definitely did. He put his head down on the table, looking spent and more upset than angry. Rhys brushed Julien’s hair back from his face, frowning deeply.  

“Feel better?”

"Sort of..." He sighed, looking up at Rhys, who was hovering over him protectively. "...Sorry."

Rhys shrugged, but he nodded his head toward the living room in the direction Flo had gone. “Apologize?”

Julien frowned, glancing to the living room. "She's going to still be mad at me..."

Rhys chuckled a little. “Maybe.” They both knew that Flo could hold a grudge, but she wouldn’t stay angry for too long. He bent, pressing a lingering kiss to Julien’s temple.

9. Looks sweet but will murder you in cold blood - Serafino for sure. He’s very femme and petite and pretty, but if you cross him, he’ll slit your fucking throat.

38. Are they basically negative when facing new things? Suspicious? Hostile? Scared? Enthusiastic?

Rhys enjoys facing new things, but he’s always a bit wary. Jessime and Bel definitely enthusiastic. Angel would be wary, but he’d hide it well and meet it head-on. 

39. What do they like to ridicule? What do they find stupid?

Rhys will mercilessly ridicule people who are being condescending to him. 

Jessime hates people who act stuck-up. 

For Bel, it’s bad makeup. If someone’s honestly trying, he’ll ease up, but nothing annoys him more than middle-aged housewives who don’t know how to blend. 

Angel - People who act like a dick for the sake of being ~edgey~ 

47. Do they want to project an image of a younger, older, more important person? Does they want to be visible or invisible?

Rhys tries to project himself as older, since he tends to look young and people already treat him like he’s incompetent. 

Jessime tries to make himself seem like he’s got his shit together, when he absolutely doesn’t. 

Bel projects himself as younger than he is. 

Angel tries to project himself as older, just out of habit. He’s been helping his mom take care of his younger siblings for years, so it’s natural. 

48. How are your character’s gestures? Vigorous? Weak? Controlled? Compulsive? Energetic? Sluggish?