#zamasian

Daddy, he thinks weakly as he rests his cheek against the toilet seat.

He can't call Eric. Eric is old. Assad can't be the reason he catches the flu. Or Covid. Or norovirus.

Assad stomach heaves again and he pitches forward, coughing as a rush of sickening orange liquid burns his throat and floods the toilet bowl. When it finally stops, he pants as he hits flush.

He can't call anyone, can he? Sam has already gone home. Jacob has small kids; Assad can't risk getting them sick. He could call Luke, maybe, but as much fun as Luke is he isn't the best in a crisis. And hell, he doesn't want to get him sick either.

Delainey would come if he asked. He hates the idea of getting her sick too, but she's probably the best option.

His phone is so far away.

He thinks again of Eric. Assad had booked this room for an extra three weeks just to have time with Eric after they wrapped. He'd assumed that Eric would be thrilled to have him around, and he'd seemed it, at first. But maybe Assad should have been clearer about why he'd stuck around, because a few days after the wrap party Eric had dropped off the face of the Earth.

Assad hadn't bothered him. He knew how to take a hint. It didn't take more than two unanswered text messages for him to get the picture. It had hurt his feelings, sure, but Eric was a busy guy, with young grandchildren and professional obligations. Assad had been silly to expect him to drop everything without any notice. It had been foolish to think it would be a nice surprise for him to stick around without first making sure that Eric would be free.

A violent shiver shakes him enough to make him realize he's ruminating again.

"Shhhhhh," he whispered to himself, rocking slightly over the toilet bowl. "Sh sh sh sh sh…"

Suddenly, horrifyingly, there's a hand on his back.

Assad jumps. The movement sends a wave of pain and nausea through him and he groans, even as his heart beats a frantic rhythm in his chest. Who is in his apartment? Who is touching him?

"Shit," a familiar voice says, and Assad's nervous system immediately begins to calm. "Shit, I'm sorry, kid, I didn't… fuck, I didn't mean to scare you. Shhh, shhh, it's okay, baby, it's just me. Is it okay if I turn the light on?"

Assad nods blearily, but the light hits him hard and he has to squint while his eyes adjust.

He must look awful. He really doesn't want Eric to see him like this.

"Oh, sweetheart," Eric coos, like he's talking to an injured kitten. "Oh, you poor thing."

He grunts as he lowers himself down into Assad's line of sight. He looks kind of blurry, but even without his glasses and through the haze of illness Assad can see that he looks tired and thin.

Assad wants to ask if he's okay. He wants to tell him to get out of here quick, before he catches whatever awful bug has Assad puking on the floor of his bathroom. But when he opens his mouth, he has to lean forward quickly while his stomach expels another torrent of thin, acidic liquid.

He closes his eyes and sobs, shaking, and can only lean into the touch when Eric rubs his back in soothing circles.

"I brought some Gatorade," Eric whispers. "I had a feeling… didn't know what color you like, so there's a red, a dark blue, and a light blue. I dunno, those are the ones my kids like. They all kinda taste the same to me."

Assad laughs weakly.

"I am not a Gatorade connoisseur," he says. His voice sounds weak and scratchy. "I'll take whatever. Or give me Harry's favorite, he has good taste."

Eric snorts, but he hands over the bottle of alarming light blue liquid.

Assad struggles a little with the cap, but he manages it before Eric can take the bottle back and do it for him. He swishes the first mouthful around his mouth and spits, then kind of wishes he hadn't, because seeing the blue liquid mix with his vomit does not make him want to drink what's left in the bottle.

Eric seems to follow this train of thought, because he flushes the toilet and says, "Drink. Trust me, you don't want to let yourself get dehydrated."

Assad does his best. The Gatorade is sweet and disgusting, the flavor unidentifiable, and when it hits his stomach he's not sure it's going to stay down. Still, as he drinks he can feel his headache easing just a little, so he presses on until half the bottle is gone, then crumples, breathing hard and wiping at his mouth.

He's suddenly very aware that he's completely naked on his bathroom floor, intermittently vomiting in front of Eric. This is so unbelievably embarrassing.

Eric takes the bottle gently, which Assad now realizes he's been holding at an angle, and sets it on the floor.

"Let's give it a minute to see how your stomach does with that," Eric says. "And then get some Tylenol in you and get you back to bed. Do you have, uh, like, a bucket?"

Assad laughs weakly. It hurts his ribs. He shrugs.

"Okay," Eric says. "I'll look for one."

But when he tries to stand, Assad grabs him by his shirt.

"Don't go," he says. "Please."

"Okay," Eric says, settling back onto the floor and stroking Assad's hair. "Okay."

Assad frowns.

"No," he says, shaking his head gingerly. "No, sorry. Don't want… you should go. Don't want to get you sick."

When he looks up, Eric is grimacing.

"Yeah, I don't think you need to worry about that," he says. "Pretty sure you caught this from me when I stuck my tongue down your throat at the cast party."

It takes Assad a moment to process that. When he does, he pushes himself upright too fast, and has to take a moment to let the spins subside.

"You've been sick?" he asks, distressed.

"Yeah," Eric says nonchalantly. "Sorry I didn't answer your texts, I was, uh…"

He scratches the back of his head sheepishly.

"In the hospital."

"I'm fine, I'm fine!" he adds in response to whatever Assad's face is doing. "I just needed some IV fluid, and then because I'm an old fart they wouldn't let me go until they were sure I wasn't about to croak. But it's not Covid or anything, it's just the flu."

Assad leans weakly on the toilet seat.

"The flu isn't 'just the flu' when you're 72, Eric."

Eric rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, well. I'm alive, aren't I?"

A violent shiver wracks Assad's body and he whimpers.

"You had this?" he asks. "It's awful!"

"Do me a favor and don't picture it."

Assad squeezes his eyes shut.

"I said, don't…"

"I'm not picturing it," Assad manages, voice strangled. "I'm trying not to throw up again."

Eric reaches into his pocket and pulls out a blister pack.

"Here, they sent me home with some Zofran. Have you ever taken Zofran?"

Assad shakes his head.

"It's great. Really takes the edge off the nausea. You don't swallow it, you just let it dissolve under your tongue. Open up."

Weakly, Assad turns his head and opens his mouth.

Eric's thick fingers gently nudging under his tongue feel strange and comforting and painfully intimate all at once. Assad waits for them to retreat, then closes his mouth around the little pill, already feeling it start to dissolve under his tongue.

"Good boy," Eric murmurs, and kisses the top of his head. "Now let's get you in the shower. It's a fucking hotel, damn the drains. The water will help the pain."

He feels Assad's forehead with the back of his hand and suddenly Assad is a kid again, too sick to go to school.

"Let me know when you think you can keep Tylenol down, I'm a little worried about your fever."

Assad whines when Eric stands.

"Shhhh," Eric says. "I'm not going anywhere."

Assad is vaguely aware of the shower turning on and Eric's clothes hitting the floor beside him. He allows himself to be gently guided to his feet, leaning on Eric's warm, familiar body as he's helped into the shower.

Eric lowers them both down into the tub, pulling Assad in between his legs. The shower spray on Assad's belly is uncomfortably cool, but Eric is warm behind him, and almost as soon as he rests his head on Eric's chest his eyes are fluttering closed. He feels so, so tired.