Chapter Text
The second time, he swears it’s an accident.
Track and field is over for the season, and Destiny Records is closed for construction, which means Bobby’s dad is home a lot, which means Bobby tries not to be.
It’s easier than it once was, at least. A year ago, he’d have had to make up some excuse to hang out at Willie’s—studying or a movie Willie just had to see, or, when Bobby and Willie’s girlfriends were getting particularly insufferable, “totally platonic and heterosexual kissing practice.” Now, firmly out of the closet and in not just one, but three less-than-heterosexual relationships, Bobby doesn’t have to lie or exaggerate to spend time with his partners. He can just call Willie, or Ray, or Rose, and say, “I need to get out of my house.”
And lately, getting out of his house has entailed sneaking around town in the middle of the night to graffiti historical monuments.
It’s an accident, because when Bobby’s not running twenty hours a week, it’s just too easy to forget, too easy to not pay attention to what he’s putting in his body. During track season, he keeps detailed notes of his caloric intake, and how many ounces of water he drinks, and how many times he pees. But without Coach Thompson breathing down his back every minute of every day…
The second time, Bobby doesn’t get dehydrated on purpose. He just… forgets to pay attention, and he’s out late with Ray and Rose so he drinks a lot of coffee, and it would be fine cause he’s not running, but then a couple nights in a row, their spray-painted anarchy symbols and socialist slogans are lit up by police lights, and while Ray and Rose find somewhere to stash the equipment, Bobby runs.
It feels good at first, is the thing. Bobby does marathons in track cause he’s the only one who can, but he’s a damn good sprinter too. And the whole reason he hates running long distance is cause it gets so boring just going around and around the track with nothing to look at but his sweaty, mediocre competitors. Running from the police is exhilarating. He can take shortcuts through town, sprint when they’re close behind him and then steady his pace to keep ahead. He gets to feel real ground beneath his feet, real air on his face, and if they time their excursions just right, he can meet up with Ray and Rose on Calder Hill just in time to watch the sunrise.
It feels good, until their fourth close call in a row—probably going on his eighth day on too little sleep and too much coffee, and not enough water and way too much running.
Willie’s waiting for them in Bobby’s room when Bobby, Ray, and Rose come tumbling through the door, Rose on the edge of giddy adrenal laughter and Ray practically holding Bobby up so he doesn’t keel over in exhaustion. Willie gets up immediately to look them all over for injuries, asks, “How did it go? Are you guys okay?” and glances behind them at the door like she’s expecting the police to bust in at any minute.
“Oh, it was wonderful, querida!” Rose crows, kissing Willie on the head as she passes to flop down on Bobby’s bed. “I think we really sent a message this time, and of course Bobby was just flawless getting out of there without being caught.”
“I do my best,” Bobby teases, but it comes out weak. His stomach hurts, and standing up out of Ray’s hold is a lot harder than he thinks it ought to be.
“You should come with us next time,” Ray teases Willie. “I could use an extra set of hands with the camera.”
“Oh, no, you’re not getting me near your little crime sprees, I’ve got a college to get into.”
They keep talking and joking around, but Bobby barely hears them, their voices fading in and out of his consciousness. His stomach really hurts now, and he’s nauseous and hot, like he ate a bad hot dog or something. He blinks, and his vision goes a little blurry, though that could just be from the sweat dripping into his eyes.
He sways on his feet, and Ray’s hands instantly steady him, his face swimming into Bobby’s line of sight, too close and pinched with concern. “He’s all pale all of a sudden,” his voice says, sounding muffled and far away. “Bobby, are you—?”
He doesn’t get to finish his question because at that moment, Bobby throws up on Ray’s shoes.
He feels better after, honestly, which feels a little rude, but he doesn’t get much chance to celebrate the relief. Right away, there are hands on him, pulling him away from the puddle of sick, forcing him onto the bed and feeling his forehead, Rose’s voice saying, “Ay, pobrecito, are you sick? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Rose.” Ray again, sounding tight and scared. “Rose, he—there’s—”
It’s not like Ray to be speechless, so Bobby forces himself to blink until his vision clears and look over—there’s blood mixed in with his vomit.
“Ah, shit,” he mutters.
“Oh my god,” Rose whispers. “Oh my—Ray, call 9-1-1. Uh, Willie, get towels so we can clean this up. Bobby, baby—”
“Rosie, it’s okay!” Willie cuts her off. They step into Bobby’s line of sight and stroke Bobby’s hair off his forehead, leaning forward to look in Bobby’s eyes. “He’s just dehydrated. Get him water and Gatorade, he’ll be fine.”
It’s the easiest thing in the world, for Bobby to just close his eyes and let Willie take care of things. He can still hear Ray and Rose’s worried voices crossing back and forth, but Willie’s steady confidence overtakes them. Bobby knows Willie will take care of everything, just like he always has. He feels better than he has in days, if he’s being honest. All he has to do is breathe, and Willie will fix everything.
Bobby doesn’t fall asleep, but he does sort of drift for a while, shaky and out of it. He perks up once Willie’s helped him sip some Gatorade and the smell of vomit permeating throughout the room has been replaced by sharp disinfectant. He’s sitting up in bed, his shoes pulled off and a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, and he can hear someone moving around in the kitchen downstairs.
“How you feeling, bud?” Willie asks softly, stroking Bobby’s hair back.
“Better,” he croaks. “Sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
“It’s not okay!” There’s Rose, which means it must be Ray in the kitchen. She’s standing by the door, arms crossed over their chest, and they’re glaring, but it seems to be directed at Willie more than Bobby, which he greatly appreciates. “Is this just something that happens?”
Willie winces. “No, baby, of course not. It’s only happened once, and that was… different. But this was just an accident, right, Bobby?”
He nods vigorously, even though it kind of makes his head swim. “I promise.”
“You’re too calm,” Rose insists, shaking her head. “I don’t like it.”
“He just needs—” Willie starts to say, but Rose cuts her off.
“I know what he needs. Bobby, you’re staying in bed the rest of the weekend. You’re going to drink plenty of water, and Ray’s making you soup, and we’re not going anywhere until you’re all better, you hear me?”
Bobby blinks sudden tears out of his eyes. This is so different from waking up in a hospital bed with Willie cuddled next to him, his supposedly loving father nowhere to be found. This is… it’s so much better.
“Yes, Rosie,” he promises, and closes his eyes.