Archive of Our Own

     A bad move, you’ve decided.

     Your shift in position makes your head hurt more and your stomach even queasier. You grab your phone and get up to go to the bathroom. You’re definitely going to throw up. After turning on the lights and nearly blinding yourself, you miserably sit on the cold floor and lay your head on the edge of the toilet. You feel absolutely awful.

     ...And you really don’t want to be alone.

     You unlock your phone and text Tom. It was slow and thoughtless, but you manage to send something halfway coherent. 

     “i feel bad,, very sick”

     A few minutes pass, and you realize that he’s probably asleep. It IS rather late. You let out a queasy groan that echoes in the toilet bowl. You swallow thickly, hoping that this awful feeling would subside soon. But your belly responds by twisting itself into an even tighter knot, making you heave and gag. Through sheer willpower, you keep from losing the contents of your stomach. 

     While you cough and your eyes water, you hear the door to your apartment open and close. In your sorry state, you don’t even feel like lifting your head to acknowledge your intruder. Thankfully the only people who have a key to your apartment room are Edd, Tom, and Matt, so the worst case scenario is Edd is here to steal your cola again.

     But a hand on your shoulder and a mumbled greeting told you that it isn’t a soda raid. It’s Tom. Your response is what seems to be the most pitiful “hey” that has ever been uttered. “I’m sorry if I woke you up...” you mutter. Tom lifts his hand from your shoulder and you hear him start to walk towards the sink. “Don’t worry about it,” he responds. You heave again, trying even harder not to vomit now that Tom was here. 

     “Don’t try to hold it in, (y/n). If you need to throw up, do it.” You hear him turn on the sink and run something under the water as he continues. “You’re gonna make yourself feel worse if you keep doing that.”

     “But I don’t want to throw up, Tom...” you drone sickly into the porcelain bowl. He walks back to you and kneels beside you, putting a cold wet rag on the back of your neck.

     “I know, but you’ll feel better after you do.” His voice was as comforting as it was exhausted. 

Before you can even appreciate the cool sensation of the rag, your stomach clenches again, and this time you just let it happen. As you shakily grip the sides of the toilet to gag and vomit, you feel small steady circles being rubbed into your back. “Yeah, there you go...” he mumbles, sounding somewhat relieved that you didn’t hold it in.

     You cough at the burning sensation in the back of your throat and your eyes water, and your stomach constricts again. Another wave of disgust washes over you as you let your illness take its course. You still feel his hand rubbing and gently patting your back, silently reassuring you as you heave your guts up again. Nothing came out, at this point it was only dry heaves. You retch one last time, and cough at the strain it put on your throat. 

     After a moment of silence, you see his hand reach up and push the toilet handle down, flushing the contents of your stomach away. You lamely spit out some of the bitterness that remains in your mouth into the swirling mess. Tom stands up and goes back to the sink, and you turn your head to watch him. He’s wearing a grey asdf t-shirt and a pair of boxers, and his hair is a mess. 

     It reminds you of when Tom had been in the same position you’re in now. The only difference between you now and him then is he had been blackout drunk. It was certainly interesting taking care of him then. One of the more eventful moments of that night being at the bar when he, for some reason, decided to strip off his clothes. He had gotten his shoes, hoodie and pants off before you saw what he was doing. Luckily, you successfully stopped him from undressing any further and took him home. After that he had thrown up and passed out, leaving you to take care of him. Thinking about it makes you smile, even in your lousy state. 

     You watch him take the glass beside the sink and rinse it out before filling it with tap water. Then he grabs your mouthwash and pours a good amount into the cap. He turns and walks back towards you, carefully handing you the mouthwash. You gratefully grab it and pour it into your mouth, and immediately the disgusting taste of stomach acid dissipates. You spit the minty liquid into the toilet beside you, then Tom hands you the glass of water. “Drink slowly,” he instructs. You croak out a “thank you” and take a few small sips. When you eventually finish the small glass, he takes it from you and then takes the wet rag from off of the back of your neck and hands it to you. While you use it to cool your forehead and cheeks, he sits beside you, hangs his head back and closes his black eyes.

     “(Y/n), next time you wake me up this late, I’m sending Edd to steal all your cola again.”