Chapter Text
Trevor Wilson emerges through the curtain into the backstage area, the thick fabric muffling the roaring of the crowd in the concert hall at his back as it falls closed. The second he crosses the threshold, the mask falls away and Award-Winning Rockstar Trevor Wilson becomes Bobby, twenty-three-year-old high school dropout who can barely hold a conversation with another human being after spending all day appealing to the masses.
It doesn’t help that he’s got a cold. And the beginnings of a migraine. He’s so glad the venue he’s playing tonight is at least big enough to get him a decent dressing room, one with a small but real bed and his own little kitchenette. It means he doesn’t have to wade through the crowd at the stage door on the way to a hotel, doesn’t have to sit in the back of a limo through midtown traffic, can just lock himself in a private room and pass out until he feels like less of a mess.
Or until morning. Whichever comes first.
“Um… Mr. Wilson?”
Bobby looks up with a wet sniff, blinking in the dim worklights that still don’t do much for his headache. His assistant, a perky young twenty-something named Katie, is standing a few feet away in her work apron with the big pocket, an ice pack in one hand and his sunglasses in the other. She holds them both out, a little awkwardly, says, “I wasn’t sure…?”
Bobby nods gratefully, not quite able to muster up a smile. He takes the shades and shoves them on, shoulders slumping in instant relief, though he thinks that might be psychosomatic at this point. Waves off the ice pack for now, though if he doesn’t get back to his room soon, he’s sure he’ll need it.
Katie falls into step next to him as he starts through the darkened halls toward his dressing room. “Sounded like a good show,” she says as she rifles through the pocket of her apron. Katie’s relatively new, only been working for him the last three shows of the tour, but she knows well enough by now that Bobby doesn’t talk after performances, often can’t, but that he doesn’t mind her filling the silence. Better than having his own thoughts to listen to all the time. “I mean, you totally couldn’t tell you were losing your voice, you probably could’ve gotten away without saying anything this morning, though if I’m being honest I think the talk show people kind of like it, proof that you’re human, you know? But anyway, I wasn’t sure what you’d need exactly but I’ve got NyQuil and Sudafed and cough drops and tissues and this, like, decongestant nasal spray the guy at the Rite Aid suggested? I basically bought out the whole Cold and Flu aisle.”
Bobby just nods again. They reach the door to his dressing room and he loses another layer of tension in his shoulders. If they’ve made it this far without running into his manager, it means Tony’s gonna actually give him the rest of the night off and save his debrief for the morning.
Bobby unlocks the door and then holds a hand out. Katie blinks at him a moment, confused, then gives a little oh of realization and unties her apron, carefully handing it over so that nothing falls out of the pocket. “Good night, Mr. Wilson. I hope you feel better.”
He gives her one more nod, and the barest hint of a smile, and then slips through the door, shuts and locks it behind him, drops Katie’s apron on a chair and slides down into a heap on the floor.
Alone, the mask comes all the way off, and he’s not even Bobby Trying His Best anymore. He’s Bobby, sick and exhausted and so done he can’t imagine how he’s going to get up in six hours and be Trevor Wilson again in the morning.
The phone rings on the bedside table. Perfect timing, as always. Bobby stretches an arm up to grab the receiver without having to stand. “‘Lo?” he croaks, his voice raspy and thick from his sore throat and the congestion clogging his sinuses.
“You looked pale on Channel Six this morning, are you sick?” Rose doesn’t waste a second, doesn’t even bother to say hello. It’s one of his favorite things about her.
Bobby tries to clear his throat, ends up coughing, wet and gross. He doesn’t bother covering or trying to muffle the sound. He’s alone and Rose has heard and seen much worse from him. “Just a cold,” he manages, wincing as his throat aches in protest of all the words he’s saying after three hours of singing tonight. He leans his head back against the door, closes his eyes. “You watched the interview?”
“Of course we watched the interview,” Rose says softly, gently. “I was very proud of you, and then I was very worried. Did you eat today?”
Bobby hesitates a second too long, thinking about it.
“Bobby… it’s a yes or no question, cariño, it’s not rocket science.”
“Toast for lunch,” he supplies. “And some tea, couple hours ago.”
He can practically hear the disapproval radiating from the other end of the phone, but hey, at least he told her the truth. “That’s not enough, you know that. You need to keep your strength up, especially when you’re sick.”
“I’m always sick,” he grumbles, as if that’s any real kind of argument. “Wasn't hungry. Nauseous. Too stuffed up to taste anything anyway.” And hey, today was the first time he didn’t throw up after a TV interview in two and a half years, so that’s gotta count for something, doesn’t it? Even if it was because there was nothing in his stomach to throw up? “Just wanna sleep, Rosie.”
“I know, sweetheart.” Rose’s voice is too tender, too loving, to be so far away. “How are you feeling, hmm?”
It’s a loaded question, but Rose likes to keep a running list of his symptoms when he gets sick on tour (every few months at the very least), so that if he keels over during a concert and the doctors call his emergency contact, Rose knows what to tell them, how he’s been feeling, what he’s taken, what he has or hasn’t eaten and when.
Bobby takes stock. “Throat hurts. Headache but from show not sick. Cough’s not too bad, normal but worse. Sniffly. ‘S just a cold,” he says again, like that’ll make Rose believe it.
She hums, a little concerned, a little disapproving. “You got a fever, baby?”
“Dunno.”
“Can you check for me?”
“Don’t wanna get up.”
There’s whispering on the other end that Bobby could probably pick up if he had the energy to try, and then the phone must change hands because the voice that speaks next is deeper, rougher, than Rose’s, but no less tender.
“Bobby?” Ray murmurs. “Are you in bed, mi amor?”
He doesn’t remember. Did he make it all the way to the bed? If he did, it’s not a very comfortable bed, he’ll have to talk to Tony about that. He cracks an eye open just enough to remind himself of his surroundings, then lets it flutter closed again. “Mm-mm. Floor.”
“And where’s the thermometer, hmm? You have one, don’t you?”
Bobby nods, realizes Ray can’t see him, and hums affirmatively. Knowing Katie, there’s probably a brand new one from Rite Aid in the pocket of her apron, but he’s also got the one he brought from home, the one that used to sit in Ray and Rose’s medicine cabinet, and then in the top drawer of his nightstand, in his travel pack beneath the bed. He remembers Ray’s still waiting for an answer, says, “Chair? Suitcase.”
Ray murmurs something encouraging that may or may not be actual words, then says, “Bobby, lindo, I need you to get up and check your temperature for us, and change out of your show clothes, and then you can get in bed and go to sleep, me entiendes?”
Something about his voice—firm but still kind, loving but not accepting any room for argument—cuts through some of Bobby’s exhaustion, gives him just enough energy to grunt and open his eyes, mutter okay okay one sec and place the phone off its hook on the bedside table so he can haul himself to his feet. The movement sets him coughing again, but he almost doesn’t notice, coughing more natural to him than breathing at this point. He stumbles over to the chair where he draped Katie’s apron and roots clumsily through its contents until his hands close around an electronic thermometer, still in the packaging, just like he guessed. He places it on the nightstand, and next to it a few travel packs of tissues, and all the pill bottles because he knows Ray and Rose are gonna suggest he take something before he passes out, and even the nasal spray Katie was so proud of.
His hands are shaky, but he manages to get his sequined leather jacket off, kicks off his boots and shimmies out of his tight leather pants without falling over. His head doesn’t hurt so much anymore, so he takes his shades off and tosses them onto the pile of clothes on the floor for Katie to deal with tomorrow. He stands there shivering in his underwear for a few moments, trying to remember what else he’s supposed to be doing. His brain only kicks back into gear when his runny nose gets too hard to ignore, and then he ducks into the bathroom to blow his nose and brush his teeth and scrub off the stupid rockstar makeup Tony makes him wear, only because he knows he’ll regret it in the morning if he leaves it on overnight.
He’s exhausted again by the time he emerges, in thick sweatpants and fuzzy socks and this dumb striped sweater of Ray’s that’s way too big on him but ridiculously soft (and smells like home, like Ray’s spicy aftershave and Rose’s shampoo), but he makes himself shuffle over to the little kitchenette in the corner to make himself a tall glass of water with a single ice cube in it, and a mug of Rose’s green tea with honey, and a rice cake with peanut butter spread on top.
He brings his meager midnight snack over to the bed, gets everything set up on the nightstand within easy reach, and then burrows under the covers, half-propped up against the headboard by about fifteen flat pillows, and picks up the phone again. “Hi.”
“Hi, baby.” It’s Rose again, a warm smile in her voice. “Where are we at?”
Bobby sniffles, rubbing at his nose with his free hand. “Jammies. Bed. Got a snack but I haven’t eaten it yet. Temperature now.”
“Buen niño,” she coos. “Quieres una canción mientras te esperas?”
It takes him a moment, his brain foggy and his Spanish rudimentary enough as it is, to understand her question, but when the meaning hits, it brings tears to his eyes. Rose knows it stresses him out, sitting still with the thermometer in his mouth, waiting for it to beep, wondering if the number will match how shitty he feels, if this will be a fever he can drug into non-existence or one he can’t ignore, if it’ll leave him stuck in bed or just miserable all day as he pushes through. Anything below 102, I can work, he told Tony once, trying to prove he was a client worth taking on despite his poor health, and he doesn’t like to cancel things anyway, doesn’t like letting people down.
Rose got into the habit of singing to him, not just over the phone but back home between tours, too, stroking his hair back with her cool thin pianist’s fingers while they waited together to take the thermometer out.
It’s been a while since he heard her sing, that’s all. Even longer since he felt her gentle touch on his skin. God, he just misses them both so much.
He sniffles and scrubs at his face, not wanting Rose to know he’s crying. “Yeah,” he croaks. “Please.”
Rose starts to hum softly, some pretty wordless lullaby Bobby only distantly recognizes. He keeps the phone pressed to his ear with one hand and reaches across to the nightstand with the other for the thermometer and some tissues. He gets both packages open with some difficulty, blows his nose as many times as it takes to let him breathe with his mouth closed, even if it makes him cough again. He switches the thermometer on and sticks it under his tongue, then leans back into his pillows and closes his eyes.
And while he waits, Rose sings to him, shifting smoothly into one of the bilingual songs her mother used to sing to her when she was little, one of the songs she’s tried to teach Bobby half a dozen times but he can never get the pronunciation right. It’s a sweet, lilting sort of song, about a little girl growing up and being told that she can’t predict the future but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth waiting for, that the surprise of life is beautiful in and of itself.
By the time the thermometer beeps and Rose stops singing, says softly, “Bobby, sweetie, go check,” he’s got tears running down his cheeks again. He doesn’t bother wiping them away, just sniffles wetly and takes the thermometer out of his mouth, squinting down at the reading in the dim light.
“Hundred point six,” he reports, placing the thermometer back on the nightstand and trading it for a fresh pack of tissues. “‘M fine.”
Rose sounds like she disagrees. “It’s not high, but it’s still a fever, baby. Can you take something?”
He nods, hums.
“Food first, though,” Ray comes in, reminding him.
He nods, hums again, but doesn’t move. It feels like a lot of effort, all of a sudden, to eat the rice cake he prepared and drink the tea he brewed and take a bunch of pills that won’t actually make him feel all that much better. Even wiping his nose feels Herculean, even though it’s running like a faucet. He just wants to go to sleep.
“Bobby?” Ray prods him. “Food and medicine, ¿sí? Entonces puedes dormir.”
“I dunno what that means,” he slurs, eyes already fluttering closed. He could probably figure it out on a good day, but he’s just. He’s just so tired. Too tired to pretend to speak Spanish. Too tired to do what Ray and Rose tell him to do, even though he’s usually so eager to please them, to make them proud. “Can’t do it today,” he murmurs, head lolling between the telephone and the pillow. “‘M sick, Mama.”
He thinks someone—one of them, he’s not sure who—gasps on the other end, and then there’s some muffled, frantic whispering, a choked go please I can’t and then something sharp and misplaced in the otherwise homey quiet of the night, the jingle of keys, maybe, the slam of a door.
When Rose speaks again, her voice is thick and shaky. Bobby wonders absently if she’s sick too. “I know you are, mijo, I’m so sorry,” she whispers. “Go to sleep, okay? You’ll feel better in the morning.”
Bobby nods and shuffles lower in the bed, almost getting tangled in the phone cord as he tries to get comfortable without having to hang up. “Sleep,” he agrees. And then, softly and half-buried in his pillow, the tiny part of his brain not muddled by exhaustion and illness sparking a warning he’s too sick to heed, he adds, “Love you.”
“Te quiero mucho,” Rose whispers. “I love you so much.”
Actually, Bobby thinks she might be crying. But he can’t for the life of him think why. And besides, he’s asleep before he can think to ask.
Bobby wakes to a commotion outside his dressing room, hushed arguing and not-so-hushed shouting and a pounding on the door in time with the pounding in his head.
God, he feels like shit. Still so tired, achy and shivery even in his coziest clothes and under a blanket, and gross like he’s hungover, even though he’s certain he didn’t drink last night. His head feels stuffed with liquid cotton, and his throat is dry and inflamed like he swallowed sandpaper.
Part of him would very much like to ignore whatever’s going on outside, pull the blanket up over his head, and go back to sleep, but just as he’s considering it, a sneeze tumbles out of him, and then three more, and so he’s forced to sit up with a groan just to escape the wet spot on his pillow.
It’s gone quiet outside. Somehow, that concerns Bobby more than the noise did. He blinks blearily into the darkness of his windowless dressing room, trying to gauge what time it is by sheer instinct. He doesn’t feel like he slept for long, but that hardly means anything. His clothes from last night are still puddled on the floor, but now the phone receiver sits next to them, the cord all tangled from when it must have tumbled off the bed. He leans over to grab it and place it back in its cradle, then has to drag his sleeve beneath his nose as the change in altitude makes it start running again. The soft fabric of Ray’s sweater tickles his nose, and he buries another flurry of sneezes into his elbow, followed by another hoarse, crackled groan.
There’s another knock at the door, sharp but less aggressive, and Tony’s voice calls, “Hey, Trevor! Open up!”
Shit. It must really be morning then. And no matter what time it is, no matter how little sleep Bobby got, no matter how miserable he feels, he’s got two interviews and a meeting with the label today and a sold-out concert tonight, and he signed a contract, and his fever was below 102 last time he checked, so he has to get up and face his manager and do his goddamn job.
Getting to his feet is harder than it has any right to be, and once he’s standing he has to pause a moment until his head stops spinning. The dizziness, more than anything, reminds him that he hasn’t eaten since about noon yesterday, when he choked down a slice and a half of plain toast after the Channel Six interview purely because Tony said If you pass out on private property, I gotta fill out a bunch of paperwork, so let’s avoid that for both of us, shall we? His stomach hurts with the gnawing ache of hunger, but that’s commonplace most days, easy enough to ignore if he feels like it. Hard to ignore much of anything right now, though, when he’s so sick and exhausted it feels like every little thing hits him like a truck.
Bobby’s not sure how long he stands there, weak and disoriented, before he remembers he was on his way to do something and manages to shuffle across the room to unlock the door and pull it open just enough to peer out into the hallway.
He sees Tony first, in his stupid decorative headband, his arms spread wide in a familiar pose that means he’s going to say something condescending like, Trevor, darling!, that Bobby just doesn’t think he has the energy to deal with today. A few feet behind him, Katie hovers nervously, her arms full of his freshly dry-cleaned outfits for the day and a clipboard with his schedule on it and a steaming paper Starbucks cup that Tony knows Bobby’s not gonna drink no matter what’s in it but asks her to pick up for him each morning anyway. She looks uncomfortable, and not just awkward teenager working for a high-maintenance rockstar uncomfortable. He thinks back to the shouting he heard waking up and wonders briefly if she and Tony got into some kind of argument. Tony could argue with a brick wall if he put a mind to it, but Bobby’s never heard Katie so much as raise her voice, and whatever argument he overheard definitely sounded two-sided.
He blinks tiredly at his manager and leans his head against the door, pushing it further open in the process. And then he almost trips over his own feet as the third person standing outside comes into view.
“Ray?” Bobby whispers, his voice a gargled mess as his eyes instantly flood with tears. “Wh-what are you—How—?”
For a second or two, Bobby’s stomach twists horribly with the thought that he’s hallucinating. After all, it’s not totally unheard of, him seeing things (people) that aren’t there, when he’s sick or drunk or deep into a paranoid depressive spiral. And how else could he explain the fact that Ray Molina is standing in the hall outside Bobby’s dressing room, in a concert venue in Chicago, Illinois, when Bobby’s certain only a few hours ago Ray had been talking to Bobby on the phone from Los Angeles? He looks real enough, though, all solid edges and bright green eyes. There’s something sharp in his expression, something almost like anger in the tension around his jaw and shoulders, but it all fades the second he lays eyes on Bobby, a sad smile spreading across his face as he says, “Hi, lindo, cómo estás?”
Definitely not a hallucination then. Bobby’s subconscious can’t speak Spanish.
The relief hits him hard enough to counteract any mortification he might otherwise feel, and Bobby abandons all attempts at propriety, not caring that Tony and Katie are standing right there looking at him, expecting to see Trevor Wilson, or at the very least Bobby Trying His Best, and are getting absolutely neither. Tears spill down his cheeks so fast they almost choke him as he throws himself at Ray.
“Hey,” Ray huffs, catching him immediately in his strong arms. He rubs a firm hand down Bobby’s back, making him shiver. “Hey, it’s okay, I’m right here. Oh, cariño, you’re burning up. But it's okay. You’re gonna be okay.”
Bobby tries to respond, but all that comes out is a strangled sob. He buries his face in Ray’s chest, twists his hands into the back of Ray’s shirt, and holds him as tight as he can, crying and then coughing until he can hardly breathe. Ray doesn’t seem to mind, just holds him tighter, lays a gentle hand over Bobby’s ear and whisper-shouts, “See? I told you he knew me. Trying to keep me away from my own kid when he’s sick like this, what kind of manager are you?”
“Your—?” Tony sputters. “You’re younger than me, kid, you expect me to believe you’re his father?”
“Tony, leave him alone,” Bobby croaks, reluctantly pulling away. He continues to grip Ray’s shirt with one shaky hand, uses the other to scrub at his tear-stained cheeks and runny nose. “This is Ray, okay? He’s my—he’s with me. What, do you want me to sign something?”
“What I want you to do is pull yourself together and get in the car parked outside, because we are already behind schedule and every minute you waste loses me ten thousand dollars.”
Bobby shrinks in on himself, his face turning red. He feels a distant echo of his usual temper spark in his chest, but he’s too out of it to be angry, to be much of anything, really, other than mildly embarrassed and preemptively exhausted by just the thought of the long day ahead. Especially now that Ray’s here.
He doesn’t want to have to be Trevor Wilson while Ray’s here. He just wants to be Bobby.
He straightens up a little, ignoring how his muscles ache, takes a deep breath and swallows painfully past the urge to cough, and opens his mouth to respond.
Ray beats him to it. “You’re not serious.” His voice is low and dangerously calm, the way Bobby’s only heard it sound once before in his life, when Ray stood over where Bobby lay drunk and dizzy in a ditch and said, Bobby. Get in the car, now. Bobby looks up at him, and the fury in Ray’s eyes startles him.
It startles Tony, too, who might be older than Ray and have the advantage of authority here, but is six inches shorter, forty pounds lighter, and isn’t used to being challenged on his own turf. “I—”
“How much money are you gonna lose when he faints in the middle of an interview, huh?” Ray continues, taking a step closer so that he towers over Tony. Bobby, hand still gripping Ray’s shirt, gets tugged along for the ride. “Look at him—he can barely stay on his feet. He’s sick, he’s got a fever, and before you try to pull some legal bullshit, know that I’ve read his contract and he has a right to cancel any event for any health-related reason, because your legal team knows just as well as I do that no self-respecting rock fan wants to go to a concert and watch Trevor Wilson have a coughing fit in the middle of Long Weekend. So unless you want a lawsuit for breach of contract and endangerment of your client on your hands, you’re gonna let me take him back into that room to get some proper rest, and you’re gonna go call whoever you need to call to get his schedule cleared for the rest of the week. ¿Me comprendes, coño?”
Bobby blinks in the silence that follows, not quite sure whether he should be mortified or amused. Tony looks a little like he swallowed a lemon (more than he normally does, anyway), his face somehow pale and bright red at the same time. He stammers unintelligibly for a minute, stopping and starting about half a dozen sentences as his gaze flits back and forth between Ray and Bobby. Finally he spits out, “Any chance you’re related to the lovely woman who shouted my ear off over the phone when Trevor had the flu last year?”
Ray grins brilliantly. “That’d be my wife.”
“Of course she is,” Tony sighs. “Fine, I’ll cancel everything. No need to get all pushy about it.”
He stalks away, grumbling into his Palm Pilot, and Bobby slumps with relief, leaning into Ray’s side and coughing into his fist. He reluctantly pulls his other hand off of Ray’s shirt to rub absent-mindedly at his chest, which is starting to ache like it only does in the winter and when his perpetual cough gets particularly bad.
Ray wraps an arm around his shoulders, pulling him close. “Sorry to overstep,” he murmurs, ducking down to press a kiss to Bobby’s hairline.
“Didn’t.” Bobby shakes his head. “Tony’s an asshole. I appreciate you standing up to him.”
“Um. Mr. Wilson?”
Bobby jumps a little, as he and Ray both turn in surprise. Honestly, he totally forgot about Katie, amid all the Tony drama, but she’s still standing there, with his now obsolete clothes and schedule and his steadily-cooling tea in her hands. She blinks at them, wide-eyed but not scared, more just interested in all the chaos around her. It’s usually one of Bobby’s favorite things about her, how fascinated she always is by the simplest, most commonplace parts of the music industry without ever letting any of it intimidate her. Today, it’s a little disconcerting. He doesn’t like to be observed when he’s like this, small and vulnerable and too drained to put up the mask of stability he’s perfected over the years. Especially not by people he respects.
Katie shifts her weight, balancing the stuff in her arms. “Did you still need me, or…?”
“Here, let me take that for you,” Ray swoops in, smoothly taking the Starbucks cup out of her hand so she can adjust the rest more comfortably. “You must be Katie, the assistant. Bo—uh, Trevor’s told my wife and me a lot about you.”
“Wow, really?” She glances at Bobby, grinning and blushing. “I’ve heard about you too, the Molinas, right? You get comp tickets reserved at every show, it’s in all his hospitality riders.”
“What?” Ray frowns, and Bobby ducks his head.
“You can go home, Katie, Ray’ll take care of me—of everything for a couple days.” Bobby’s too awake by now, too aware that he’s blushing. He would very much like to go back into his dressing room before he sinks into the floor from humiliation.
“Oh. Okay.” Katie shifts her pile again, almost drops the clipboard. “I’ll just take this back to the wardrobe office then. Uh, but you have my number if you—either of you—need anything.”
“Actually,” Ray says, “if I got you a grocery list, could you pick up a few things for us?”
“Of course!” Katie smiles brightly. She told Bobby once, in the echoing silence of a rough night, I like this job. I like being useful. So anything you need, Mr. Wilson, anything at all, I’m your gal. “I’ll come back in twenty minutes or so, if you have it ready I’ll head straight to the store then.”
“Perfect.” Ray grins back at her, all his earlier anger gone like it never existed. He starts to reach in his back pocket. “Should I give you some money?”
“Oh, no, don’t worry. I’ve got Mr. Wilson’s credit card. From the label. So I’m all set.” She nods at Bobby, then at Ray, says, “I’ll be right back to get that list. Feel better, Mr. Wilson!”
“Well isn’t she a character,” Ray muses once she’s disappeared down the hall.
Bobby snorts. “That’s one way to put it.” He shivers, leaning a little more into Ray’s side, and sneezes twice into his sweater sleeve.
“Salud, pobrecito,” Ray murmurs. He strokes Bobby’s hair back, laying a broad palm over his forehead. He tuts, worried. “Definitely warmer than a hundred point six. Come on, let’s get you back to bed.”
Bobby gladly lets Ray usher him back into the dressing room and under the covers. It’s not until Ray is sorting through the mini-pharmacy and abandoned midnight snack on the nightstand that Bobby remembers to ask, “Hey, what are you doing here anyway? Shouldn’t you be in L.A.?”
Ray avoids answering by clearing the dishes and tasting the drink Katie brought—“Earl grey,” he says approvingly, starting to hold it out for Bobby, then amends, “Caffeinated,” and pours the rest out in the sink, shaking his head—but once he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, resetting the thermometer, he explains, “We were worried about you last night. You didn’t sound like you should be alone, so I got the first flight out.”
“But that’s like a four hour flight,” Bobby says, adds silently and you hate planes. “What time is it?”
“Only 10:30,” Ray says, checking his watch to confirm. “Plane took off just after 5. Don’t worry, I slept most of the way.”
Bobby frowns, unconvinced. “You didn’t have to come.”
Ray gives him a look, unamused but still so fond, like when he’s not in the mood to take Bobby’s self-deprecating bullshit. To be fair, Bobby doesn’t really have the energy to attempt much of it.
“Thank you for coming,” he murmurs instead, and Ray smiles, satisfied, and gently guides the thermometer under Bobby’s tongue.
Ray doesn’t sing like Rose does—he can sing, Bobby knows this for a fact, he just chooses not to sing almost all of the time, claiming Rose and Bobby have enough musical talent for the three of them and he’d only be stepping on their toes—but he sits there, stroking Bobby’s hair out of his face while they wait, murmuring soft Spanish lines that sound like they might be from a poem.
When the device beeps, Ray checks the reading and mutters a curse. “Hundred and three, ay Dios mio, you poor thing.” He palms Bobby’s forehead again, as if feeling the fever for himself will change the reading. “I’m so sorry, baby, you must feel just awful.”
Bobby hums noncommittally, leaning into Ray’s cool touch. “Not so bad. You’re here.” He pulls away, turning his head but not bothering to cover his mouth as another coughing fit hits.
Ray coos sympathetically and grabs the glass of water off the nightstand, holding it gently to Bobby’s lips once the coughing’s backed off enough for him to be able to take a sip without choking on it.
The water burns cool down his throat—it’s probably been way too long since he drank any—but swallowing hurts. He pushes Ray’s hand away when he tries to encourage him to drink more. “Where’s Rose?” he croaks.
“She had to work today, it was too late to get her shift covered. If you’re not feeling better in a day or two, she’ll come up for the weekend, okay?”
Bobby frowns at him, a strange feeling tugging at his chest. “You mean. You mean you’re staying? Through tonight, I mean? You’re—you’re not just gonna feed me and go back home?”
The look Ray gives him is too tender, too sad and sweet, Bobby almost can’t stand it. Ray shakes his head, twists around to put the water glass back down and then cups a hand to Bobby’s cheek. “No, of course not. Of course I’m staying. I’ll stay—I’ll stay as long as you need me. As long as you want me. I’d stay forever if I could, you know that.” He breathes a little laugh, like it’s a joke, but it falls flat, and Bobby’s not amused.
“I wish you could,” he whispers. It’s not something he’d ever say if he were in his right mind. He can’t even find it in himself to be embarrassed about it. Must be the fever talking.
Ray looks surprised for a moment, and then just painfully sad. He strokes his thumb across Bobby’s hot cheek, whispers, “I know, baby, me too.”
They talked about it once, briefly, when Bobby was about to embark on his first tour a few years ago. Rose didn’t think he was ready to be off on his own yet, Ray just didn’t think he should have to be, and Bobby got...let’s say a little snippy about it, a fact he now deeply regrets, so the conversation ended before it ever really began. It was definitely the right choice—Ray and Rose have their own jobs, their own lives—but part of Bobby does sort of wish they could’ve worked something out so that he’s not away from them for so long at a time.
“We’ll call Rose in just a little bit, okay?” Ray says, stroking Bobby’s hair back again and leaning in to kiss his temple. “You know how she worries, she’ll love to hear from you.”
Bobby nods, allowing a tiny smile. Boy, does he know.
“But first,” Ray continues, and Bobby gives a little whine of protest as Ray pulls away and gets to his feet, “I gotta see what you’ve got already so I can get a list for that nice assistant of yours.”
Bobby shrinks back into his pillows as Ray heads over to the kitchenette. “It’s not much,” Bobby warns him. “I’ve only been in town a couple days.”
“Is that how you got sick?” Ray asks over his shoulder. “Caught something on the plane?”
“Probably.” Ray turns back to rifling through the cabinets. Bobby feels the need to add, “I haven’t had much of an appetite, so I just had Katie get the essentials.”
The essentials, as Ray soon sees, consist of rice cakes, peanut butter, wheat bread, and not much else. The sink water’s filtered, so the mini-fridge is completely empty. There’s a half-empty box of teabags and a bottle of honey on the counter, and that’s it.
“Okaaaaay, looks like Katie might have to take two trips,” Ray murmurs, somehow managing to sound disappointed without sounding upset. He turns back, offering Bobby a calming little smile. “Pen and paper?”
Bobby points at the desk, where he’s got a scattered collection of lyric sheets and writing utensils, mostly to keep up the illusion that he writes his own songs. It’s only once Ray’s settled in a chair, muttering under his breath as he scribbles out a grocery list, that Bobby thinks to ask, “Hey, where’s your stuff?”
“Hmm?”
“Your stuff,” Bobby repeats. “You didn’t pack a suitcase?”
“Why would I? You’ve got half my clothes here,” Ray teases, nodding at Bobby’s too-big sweater. Bobby scowls, to which Ray only grins wider. “No, I brought a bag. It’s at the hotel down the street, I got us a room. Soon as you’re fed and medicated, we’re going there. It’s too stuffy in here, you need some space to breathe.”
Something about that warms Bobby’s chest in a way he’s not totally sure he’s comfortable with. It makes tears prick at his eyes again, this sudden proof that he’s really not going to have to be sick and suffering alone, that he’s really not going to have to act okay in front of millions of people, that he doesn’t have to be Trevor Wilson, can just be Bobby, with Ray and Rose, for as long as it takes for him to feel better again.
He blinks back the tears and sinks down into his pillows again, turning on his side a little so that he can watch Ray write. “Thanks,” he whispers, softly enough that they can both pretend Ray didn’t hear him.
Ray glances over at him, smiles, says, “Drink some more water,” with a nod to the glass on the bedside table, and then turns back to his list. It’s the closest he’s going to get to an acknowledgement of Bobby’s thanks, which is just fine by him.
Bobby does manage a few sips of room temperature water before it starts to slosh uncomfortably in his otherwise empty stomach, and then he returns the half-empty glass to the nightstand and lies on his back, shifting his pillows lower so he’s a little more comfortable. Ray starts to hum under his breath as he works on his list, something Bobby doesn’t recognize but is absolutely certain is by Britney Spears. Bobby closes his eyes, safe and warm and content all of a sudden, knowing that Ray’s there keeping an eye on him.
He doesn’t mean to doze off, really, but the next thing he knows, he’s being gently awoken by Ray’s hand on his forehead, and Ray’s voice in his ear, whispering, “Hey, nene, soup’s ready, can you wake up for me?”
Bobby groans, and then coughs, just barely getting his elbow up in time to cover. Ray strokes his hair soothingly. “Come on, sweets, you’ll feel better after you eat something.”
Bobby highly doubts that, considering more often than not eating something actually makes him feel worse , but he reluctantly blinks his eyes open and croaks, “Time is it?”
“Almost noon.” The bed shifts as Ray stands, returning shortly with a bowl of something steamy. Bobby stiffens out of instinct, but Ray shushes him gently. “It’s sopa de fideo, just like I make at home. Tomato broth, noodles, and spices, that’s it. I didn’t want to wake you up just to watch me cook when you need all the rest you can get. Is that gonna be okay?”
Bobby stares at the bowl in Ray’s hands, forces himself to breathe past his racing heart. He trusts Ray, of course he does, he knows Ray would never do anything to try to hurt him. It’s just that Bobby’s gotten into a routine out here on tour, he’s gotten used to being in complete control of everything he puts in his body (even if that everything might be less than Ray and Rose would exactly approve of). It’s been a really long time since he’s had the chance to sit on the kitchen counter of their L.A. apartment, swinging his legs and reading nutritional information off the backs of ingredients while Rose cooks.
At home, he can almost always eat, at least a little bit, if he knows exactly what he’s eating, if he sees exactly which items Rose takes out of the fridge and pantry and how she prepares them. Sometimes, on really good days, he can even take just being told what he’s eating, because he knows Ray and Rose would never lie to him.
But he hasn’t had a really good day in forever, and his mental state always takes a weird turn when he’s sick anyway, and what if this is the time he’s wrong? What if this is the time someone makes a mistake—Katie at the grocery store or Ray at the stove or Bobby just tempting fate one too many times—and the universe decides to finally cash in on the last living member of Sunset Curve and take him the same way it took his friends?
Ray must read all these thoughts and more in Bobby’s hesitation, because he shakes his head, says, “Never mind, it’s okay. I’ll just—I shouldn’t have—Would you like me to make something else so you can watch?”
Somehow, the guilt at wasting food and Ray’s time sours Bobby’s stomach more than the fear of eating the soup that’s already made. “No, no, it’s okay,” he says quickly before Ray can return to the kitchenette. “Um—I’ll. I can.” He swallows heavily, letting the pain of his sore throat steady his thoughts a little. “Can you just taste it first please?”
“Of course, mi amor.” Ray smiles at him, apologetic but proud, and Bobby resists the urge to wrap his arms around his stomach. He swallows back nausea, because now he feels even guiltier and even more terrified because if something is wrong with the food somehow, now it won’t kill him it’ll kill Ray and it’ll be Bobby’s fault and—
“Wait,” he shouts, sitting bolt upright before Ray can so much as lift the spoon. “Stop.”
“Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay.” Ray places the bowl of soup on the desk, grabs the trash can from under it, and hurries to sit next to Bobby on the bed, one hand on Bobby’s back, the other holding the wastebasket out in front of him. “I’m right here, you’re okay. Are you gonna be sick?”
Bobby shakes his head, though honestly he’s not sure. He takes slow, deep breaths, wishing he wasn’t so congested so he could breathe through his nose, and wills his churning stomach to settle. “I’m not—I just—I can’t,” he gasps. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s absolutely nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart,” Ray assures him, rubbing firm circles into his back. “I shouldn’t have assumed. Guess I’m a little out of practice, huh?”
It’s another attempt at a joke. This one makes Bobby huff out a laugh. “Think I am, too,” he admits breathlessly.
Ray kisses his head, murmurs into his hair, “You’ve been away from home too long, baby. You’ve been alone too long.”
Bobby doesn’t respond, but he can’t disagree. The nausea fades enough that he can confidently turn away from the trash can, presses his hot forehead to Ray’s shoulder and closes his eyes.
They sit there for a minute or two, Bobby matching his slow, even breaths to Ray’s. Ray continues to rub his back and press tiny, gentle kisses to Bobby’s face, but neither of them speak.
When Bobby’s (mostly) absolutely certain he’s not going to vomit, he pulls away just enough to be able to lift the collar of his sweater over his mouth and cough. His chest twinges again, and his next breaths contain just a hint of a wheeze.
“Come on,” Ray murmurs, stroking a hand over Bobby’s forehead. “You need to eat something so we can get some medicine in you. Can we try again? Not the soup, just something small, something easy?”
Bobby gives a tiny nod. “Did you get—” He breaks off to cough again, mimes a pair of chopsticks with one hand since he can’t speak.
“Claro que sí.” Ray stands and heads back over to the kitchenette, rifles through the plastic grocery bags on the counter. “¿Qué quieres beber? Water, tea, or juice?”
Bobby makes a face he’s glad Ray can’t see. He doesn’t like drinking water after he’s felt sick to his stomach; it reminds him of late nights sucking on ice chips in Ray and Rose’s bathroom and still not being able to keep the barest liquid down. But when Ray makes tea—especially Rose’s tea—he never quite does it right, can never perfect the timing, or the balance between tea and honey. It’s never bad, but it’s not good, and Bobby has the feeling it won’t do much other than make him miss Rose even more than he already does.
“Juice, I guess,” he decides, figures it’ll help his throat a little, get his blood sugar up. He sniffles and rubs his nose, feeling a little shaky and stupid in the aftermath of his episode.
“Coming right up.” Ray shoots him a grin over his shoulder.
Something about it takes another layer of tension off Bobby’s shoulders, lets him relax and breathe a little easier. Like part of him needed the reminder that Ray wouldn’t be mad or disappointed that Bobby’s not doing so great, not doing nearly as well as he was when he last left home.
Ray comes back over to the bed with a glass of orange juice in one hand and a can of chickpeas in the other. “You wanna sit up against the pillows again? Might be more comfortable.”
Bobby shakes his head, just holds his hands out. Ray hands him the chickpeas and a pair of wooden chopsticks from his back pocket, but holds onto the juice as he sits next to Bobby on the bed.
They sit in silence for a little while, as Bobby plucks out one garbanzo bean at a time, puts it in his mouth, takes the skin off with his tongue and chews it into tiny bites before forcing himself to swallow. After each one, he waits, swallows compulsively, until he’s certain the nausea’s not going to resurface. And then he picks up his chopsticks again and reaches in the can for one more.
It’s a slow and arduous process, but Ray is patient. He leans back on one hand, stares up at the ceiling of Bobby’s dressing room, and talks quietly about everything that’s been going on in his and Rose’s lives since Bobby last saw them, everything they didn’t think to mention over the phone. It’s not anything so important that Bobby has to actually listen, but the background noise is just enough to keep him from getting stuck in his head, keeps him eating, lets him take slow sips of juice when Ray shoves the glass in his hands every few minutes. Before he knows it, it’s been a little more than an hour, but he’s drained the glass and eaten half the tin of chickpeas, and his stomach isn’t rebelling against him for once but he’s kind of falling asleep.
“Think I’m done,” he murmurs, handing Ray the can. “Can I sleep?”
“Medicine first, then of course you can.” Ray brings the dishes over to the sink and then returns with a glass of water and a bottle of pills. “These should get your fever down, but that assistant of yours bought out half a pharmacy if there’s anything else you think would help you feel better.”
“‘Sfine.” Bobby takes three of the fever reducers and drinks half the water just to make Ray happy, then hands the glass back. “Sleep now?”
Ray strokes his hair back, letting his hand linger on Bobby’s forehead. “Of course, baby. I’ll pack your stuff up so we can go to the hotel when you wake up, okay?”
Bobby nods, his eyelids already heavy. He curls up on his side, burrowing deeper into Ray’s sweater. He thinks Ray might say something else, but Bobby’s already asleep.