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No, Lance groaned inwardly, wrenched from a deep sleep. He curled in on himself, willing the pain in his stomach to go away. Not now, not today--
He had just gone to sleep, it felt like. A quick glance at the clock showed it to be only 1am, far too early to wake up, and only a couple hours after he and Keith had fallen asleep in his bed after blowing out all the candles scattered around the house. Lance had been visiting Keith in his swanky new house, helping his boyfriend move in the last of his furniture, when the early January weather took a turn for the worst. The temperature dropped, the wind picked up, and the snow began to fall like Noah’s Ark 2.0. “Record breaking snowfall,” the reporter on television said right before a tree cracked outside, fell, and broke through the power lines, cutting off all electricity in the whole neighborhood. So not only was Lance snowed into Keith’s new house for an indefinite amount of time, but they also had no power. And now, the cherry on top, Lance was feeling sick. Like, sick sick.
It could be worse, Lance had to admit. Being forced to spend time with Keith Kogane was never a bad thing, in fact, quite the opposite. He only wished he brought more than the clothes on his back in order to wait out the storm.
Another wave of pain ripped through him and his muscles tensed, eyes screwing closed in pain. He bit back a whimper-- Keith was right beside him and he was determined to ride this out by himself, let Keith get as much sleep as he could. The boy was a light sleeper, always seemed to be brooding and worrying over something, and he deserved the rest. He was already doing him a huge favor by accommodating his high maintenance ass during this storm-- No, Lance could handle himself this time.
Lance shifted in bed, praying to find a position that would make the pain go away but it only got worse. His stomach twisted and cramped, his head felt like it had been doused in lava, and he could feel the nausea swelling in his chest, rising up his throat. Keith sighed and turned over in his sleep, and Lance knew he had to take his problem elsewhere.
As quietly as he could, he pushed the blankets off of him and stepped onto the floor. His legs shook and the cold air sent him shivering, doubled over all the way to the master bedroom bathroom. He flicked the lightswitch after closing the door, forgetting that there was no power, and decided that might be for the better. Instead, he locked the door. They might have been dating for almost a year, but there were still some things Lance wished Keith would not see. And him huddled over himself on the bathroom floor, cheek smooshed against the cool porcelain toilet seat, huffing and shaking and sweating and fighting the terrible pain inside his stomach was NOT a good look.
Lance sat on the cold tile floor, pleading with himself not to throw up. It came in waves. It would build and build, push and pull, twist and turn, and he could feel it at the back of his throat begging to come up. It felt like he was being stabbed with red hot knives, over and over again. He became acutely aware of how much he was sweating, beads of cool moisture running down his back and soaking through his-- Keith’s-- pajama shirt. He squeezed his eyes closed, clenched his teeth, and focused on breathing.
He didn’t know how long he sat there, begging all things good and holy to offer him some kind of relief. His hands grasped the toilet seat as another wave of agony built and built, slowly and torturously. He thought that he might cry, maybe that’ll release some pain, but his body was too weak to cry, too wound up with this terrible, agonizing pain. He hung his head and wished for someone to bludgeon him over the head, make him pass out to let him escape from this misery. Through the blood pumping in his ears, he became vaguely aware of footsteps outside the door, the jiggle of the doorknob, followed by a quiet knock on the wood.
“You okay in there?”
Fuck.
“Yeah. Fine.”
An especially strong wave of nausea washed over him. Lance doubled over the toilet, fingers going numb on the toilet seat, sweat running down his back, stomach crying. There was a fire in his chest, rising, rising, rising. He opened his mouth and gagged over the toilet, the spasms in his abdomen slamming into him like a hammer.
“Lance…”
“Hm,” Lance cursed it for sounding like the most pathetic whimper.
“I’m coming in.”
Of course he could read the obvious signs of distress in his voice, Lance thought bitterly. Of course he had to be the one to see him like this.
Lance didn’t know how Keith got the door unlocked, but he was the black paladin so he really shouldn’t have been so surprised. He knelt down beside Lance, hand instinctively going to his sweaty back and rubbing in comforting circles.
He wanted to tell him to go away, to leave him be. He could deal with this himself. But it hurt so bad. He suddenly felt like a little kid again, wanting so bad to look at Keith and tell him that his stomach hurt. Ask him for help, just like he would from his mother and father. He didn’t know what he wanted. God, he just wanted the pain to go away.
Keith didn’t seem fazed by his predicament. Not even when another wave crashed over him, a sharp twist in his stomach and he was begging the higher gods to let him just please throw up or something, give him some kind of relief. It has to come out, he decided, so he stuck two of his fingers into the back of his throat, searching for the spot that would make it come up. Keith caught his wrist and pulled it away from his mouth, gently holding it in his own.
“Don’t do that,” he said softly, resting his other hand on the crown of his head, stroking his hair. “Just let it come naturally.”
Lance’s breathing was shallow, labored. His back heaved with another wave, and suddenly, he was producing the most vile, vicious vomit. It came from the depths of his stomach, as he had barely eaten anything that day, and forced its way up his esophagus, out of his mouth, splashing into the toilet water. It didn’t stop. It kept coming, so much he could barely find time to breathe between bouts of sickness.
When it finally let up, he coughed and spit the chunks out of his mouth, moaned and rested his cheek on the cold of the toilet seat. Keith continued to kneel by his side, rubbing the top of his back with feather light touches. Anywhere else, and he would have snapped at him. Lance hated being touched when he was sick, his skin like a live wire. Even now, he couldn’t tell whether he wanted to rip his shirt off or wrap himself in dozens of blankets. Everything was singing with pain, knocking him into the ground and smothering him under a boot. His stomach twisted again, and he lifted himself to continue puking into the toilet.
He must have been there for hours. The pain would come, he would throw up, and then it would subside. Keith was there with him through it all, not saying a word, barely touching him. Lance hated that he was seeing him this way, that he was losing sleep over this.
When the pain subsided and didn’t come back for 15 minutes, he finally reached for the lever to flush the toilet. His arm was so weak and shaky, he could barely press down enough to do so. The contents of his stomach gurgled and disappeared down the drain, and he closed the lid, drying his clammy hands off on his thighs. He didn’t want to look up, too dizzy to move his head much. He just wanted to keel over and lie on the floor, let himself slide into unconsciousness. The wind howled outside, making the house groan and the trees scrape the roof.
Keith placed his hands under his arms and carefully lifted, slowly, as to not disturb his stomach. If he was grossed out by the amount of sweat on him, he didn’t show it. There was an absurd amount— Lance was drenched in it, and it was cold. Once he was sat on the toilet seat, Keith moved to the sink and ran the water. He couldn’t tell what he was doing in the dark, but he returned with a glass of water and placed it in his shaky hands.
“Small sips,” he told him, assisting in holding the cup to his mouth when he found his hands were too weak to hold it.
Lance did as was told, savoring the cold, smooth liquid that soothed his burning throat. He began to drink more deeply, taking the cup in his hands and trying to gulp it down. Keith’s hold on the cup tightened, pulling it away.
“I said small sips,” he reiterated, giving it back. Lance held the cup, frowning, already feeling his stomach complain at his rash intake. He handed it back.
Keith set it on the counter, and then lifted a wet cloth to his face. He ran it over his burning skin, cleaning the sweat up. He smoothed his bangs away from his face, touching the cool cloth above his eyes, down his cheeks, over his nose, on his mouth and chin. He was being so gentle with him. It was a side he didn’t show often.
After he was done, Lance moved to stand. He was feeling a little better. His stomach still hurt, but there was nothing left to throw up and now he wanted nothing more than to get back into Keith’s bed and sleep. His legs shook like a baby deer, whole body trembled viciously, even when Keith stepped in to assist. He wrapped his arm around Lance’s middle, slowly leading him out of the bathroom and into his room. Lance couldn’t see a thing, as it was pitch black in the house, but he trusted Keith and his night vision Galra senses.
He sat him on the bed and told him to sit up. Normally he would have been bashful if he felt Keith’s fingers lift the hem of his shirt, but now all he could feel was relief as the sweaty material was lifted off of his skin. He was still clammy, but no longer weighed down by the drenched material. Keith kept a hand on his shoulder as he searched his drawers for a sweater, something soft that wouldn’t anger his skin. He came back with a red hoodie, pulled it over his head, and helped him push his arms through the holes. Lance kicked his pants off himself, leaving himself in his boxers, and turned to lay down. Keith was already pulling the covers back for him and he gratefully slid beneath them, curling up into a ball on his side. He pulled the covers back over his shivering form, then got up to light some candles and set them on the bedside table.
Keith didn’t come back to bed right away. Lance watched him through cracked eyelids, still guilty that he had woken him up. He hoped he wasn’t mad at him. He went back to the bathroom, came back with some pills and water, and had Lance take them. Then he left again, and Lance sank deeper into the blankets.
No matter how much he wanted to sleep, the uncomfortable rolling in his stomach made that impossible. He waited for Keith to come back, apologies forming in his head, planning a way to sneak out in the morning. Keith wasn’t mad, was he? He had barely said anything to Lance this whole time. He wasn’t normally a very chatty guy, but this was odd, wasn’t it?
When Keith came back next, he was holding a steaming cup of tea.
“Can you sit up?” he asked him, leaning on the bed in front of Lance with one knee on the mattress. His voice was soft, but he wished he could see more of his face than what the candlelight permitted. He carried his emotions in his eyes.
Sitting up was the last thing Lance wanted to do, but Keith was waiting for him, so he tried. And when he saw him struggle, he put a supporting hand on the small of his back and helped him stay put.
“Drink this, it should make you feel better.”
“How did you get it hot?” Lance asked, taking the mug in his weak grasp. It took all his focus not to drop it on the bed.
“I started a fire downstairs, it should warm the house up some. Here, I’ll take it,” he said after Lance took a sip, moving to set the mug on the dresser. Then he sat down fully on the bed, one leg on and one leg off, in front of Lance. “Anything else I can do?”
Lance hated the way that question made him want to cry. He already felt awful, and it just made everything worse that Keith got pulled into it. And now he was being so NICE about it, Lance felt like he didn’t deserve it.
“I’m sorry,” Lance choked, blinking back tears. He wanted to say more, ‘Don’t be mad at me, I’ll be gone first thing in the morning, I’m sorry I’m such a nuisance.’ But his throat had constricted and wasn’t letting anything pass, the opposite of how it was 30 minutes ago.
“What are you sorry for?” Keith asked, voice incredibly gentle. Lance could see it now, the small frown on his face,the tilt of his dark eyebrows, the concern in his tone. He wasn’t mad.
“I woke you up, and now I’m all gross.”
Just then, his stomach cramped and Lance’s face crumpled in pain. He shied away from Keith’s touch and layed back down against the pillows, shivering and whimpering. A couple stress tears wet the pillow on which his cheek was laying.
“Lance…” Keith said, and he looked like he didn’t know what to do for the first time that night. “I want to help you--”
“It hurts,” Lance whined, clutching at his stomach. “It hurts so bad.”
“I know,” Keith soothed, resting a large hand on Lance’s knee over the blanket. He always knew what was too much and what was just enough contact. “Lance, look at me.”
The sick boy opened his eyes and found Keith’s, cool and comforting like wine in the orange glow of the candle. “Should I bring you to the hospital?”
“No,” Lance moaned, rolling to his opposite side. Keith’s hands hovered over him again, unsure.
“Tell me what I should do.”
“Get me a bucket,” Lance bit, and Keith noticed how pale he had suddenly gotten. Keith attributed his Galra reflexes to the speed in which he grabbed his trash can from beside the bedside table and thrust it under Lance’s chin just as he began spewing chunks again, vicious and burning. Lance held onto the bin but Keith steadied it with his hands as Lance emptied his stomach, over and over and over. It came spurting out of his nose, stress tears ran down his face, and his head rolled dizzily after the chunks turned to straight stomach acid, and his stomach stopped cramping. Keith breathed through his mouth so he wouldn’t smell the sickness and brought the bin to the bathroom, dumping it out in the toilet and using the running water sparingly to wash it clean. He truly was a little lost. He had never had to take care of another sick person before, not when they were this sick, and the last time he got the stomach bug was when his father was alive. He tried to think of what his father would do.
He could make a bath for Lance, help him wash the sweat and sick off of him, but the water pressure was failing and he knew the pump was dying due to the power outage. The only medicine he had was some ibuprofen and some tums, which Lance already took and it didn’t seem to help. It took him 10 minutes to make a damn cup of tea. And the house was being shaken with every strong gust of wind, the cold seeping in under the cracks, and Keith just did not have the resources to handle this.
Maybe he should take him to the hospital.
Keith crossed the bathroom and lifted the blinds with his fingers, peering at the conditions outside. There was no way. Everything was covered in at least a foot of snow, and the thick flakes outside had no interest in letting up. He scowled. He never liked the snow, and growing up in the desert didn’t prepare him for the harsh weather in the north. There was no way he’d be able to get Lance to a hospital in this weather, but if he got any worse, he’d carry him on his damn back if he had to. Or, he could pull a couple strings and use his Legendary Defender privileges to get some extra help-- they did save all of existence that one time, didn’t they?
Lance was sitting up when Keith returned, head rolling and eyes cracked in half consciousness. Keith cupped the back of his head to steady it as he wiped Lance’s mouth and nose clean of vomit and tears, and then made him swish and spit some water into the trash can. Then drink some tea. There wasn’t much else he could do but help him lie back down, pull the covers over him, and rest a hand on his thigh and watch over him as he struggled to sleep.
“I’m sorry,” Lance mumbled again, not meeting Keith’s eyes. His chest throbbed.
“Don’t apologize,” Keith reprimanded, squeezing his leg. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I just want you to get better.”
“I’ll make this up to you.”
“Shh,” Keith said, rubbing his leg. “Go back to sleep.”
“You always take such good care of me.”
Keith blinked and tilted his head, staring at Lance with those stupidly soft eyes that was always so out of character for him.
“I love you,” he told him, like it was obvious. And Lance guessed it was. He smiled a little-- Keith didn’t say that often, so when he did, it always made him warm inside.
“I love you,” he emphasized the ‘you’, making it a challenge. It was always a rivalry between them.
“Shh, Lance. Go to sleep. You need the rest,” Keith’s mouth tilted up into the smallest smile, the first of the night. He knew Lance would go back and forth and claim he cared more for Keith, which certainly wasn’t true, and it usually ended in playful wrestling, then a make out session, and then… well…
Yeah, Lance wasn’t up for that right now.
“I’ll be here when you wake up,” he told Lance, smoothing his sweaty bangs out of his face. “Just sleep now, please.”
Lance relaxed under Keith’s soothing touch, calmed by the deep timbre of his voice and the strength and warmth of his hands. With Keith there, he knew he would be okay. Keith never let anything bad happen to him. He always took such good care of him.