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Alex’s alarm goes off right when it’s scheduled to, at 3:55am.
Two days ago, when Luke and Reggie had been loudly bemoaning the fact that they had to get up so early and the flight’s not till eight, come on!, Alex had been the one reminding them that not only do they take forever to get dressed in the morning, but that it’s best to arrive at the airport at least an hour and a half early to go through security, and also you guys know you’re not gonna be packed the night before.
Now, though, he forgets all those rational explanations for why he’s being awoken hours before sunrise by the smartphone Mr. Molina bought him blasting Heaven is a Place on Earth at its highest volume. He grips his pillow in both hands and bites back the urge to burst into tears.
Alex is usually an early riser. He likes to get a good headstart on his day, doesn’t like to waste time lying in bed until mid-morning (or later, like Luke tends to do), likes to go to bed early so he can get up early so he can get everything done that he needs to get done and go to bed early again. He turned in right after dinner last night, knowing he’d have to get up at this god awful time of morning and also because he’d been feeling nauseous all afternoon and figured sleeping it off was the best course of action. Three hours later, he was turning the shower on in the Molinas’ upstairs bathroom so that his friends downstairs wouldn’t hear him throwing up his half-eaten meal.
He’d told himself it was just anxiety, because Ray’s been planning this trip to Florida for weeks now, ever since Reggie told him he’s never been to an amusement park and, even though Anaheim’s less than an hour away, Julie insisted that Disney World—the one in Orlando—was the place to go. And Alex, purely just because of his nature, has been helping Ray with the planning, doing research and reading park maps and making itineraries and packing lists and to-do lists upon to-do lists, and yeah, it’s been stressful, and yeah, Ray’s told him he can just sit back and enjoy the vacation like the rest of the kids, but it actually makes Alex more anxious not to be in control of things, so he insisted on doing a bunch of the prep work anyway, even if it left him sick to his stomach with nerves the night before their trip.
He’s not so sure it’s nerves anymore, after he threw up twice, spent the better part of an hour dry-heaving, and then tossed and turned the rest of the night alternating between hot flashes and cold spells.
His alarm is still blaring. He hasn’t moved. His mouth tastes like the poisoned hot dog that killed him, and his head is pounding, and his throat burns before he’s even tried to swallow, and just the idea of making it downstairs to the kitchen, much less traveling for the next ten hours… God, now Alex really wants to cry.
His only consolation is that, in the months since he and his bandmates came back to life, the layout of the Molina house—now with six people in it—has been rearranged a time or two. Carlos and Reggie share bunk beds, which they both think is the coolest thing to ever happen to them. When they first moved in, Ray told Luke and Alex to share the guest room, which was fine for a total of six days and eighteen seconds, after which Alex got starfished off the bed one too many times and challenged Luke to a thumb wrestling tournament he’s still feeling the bruises from. Alex lost, and spent a month or two on an air mattress in the loft of the studio because he refused to sleep on a thirty-plus-year-old couch. But eventually, Luke decided he liked the couch better than being stuck inside the house, because he stays up late and talks in his sleep and Julie threatened to defenestrate him if she heard him playing guitar at 2am one more time. So now Alex has his own room. He’s never been more grateful. He thinks if he had to have an audience to him dragging himself out of bed and getting dressed with shaky hands and sluggish movements—especially the kind of audience Luke and Reggie have always proven to be, exhaustingly energetic in their worry—he might return to the afterlife by willpower alone.
As it stands, it’s already 4:30—they’re supposed to leave at a quarter to five—and Alex is all packed, he slept in his traveling clothes so he’s dressed and ready to go, but he wants nothing more than to just get back in bed.
Of course, that’s not an option. They’ve been planning this trip for weeks. The tickets and hotel rooms are already paid for, and they weren’t cheap. And Reggie’s so excited. Alex can’t bear to ruin this for him.
He makes his way slowly down the stairs, gripping the rail so tight his knuckles turn white. He’s a little unsteady on his feet, and his stomach still hurts, but he just takes it one step at a time, forces himself to breathe deeply even when it feels like his lungs are filled with molasses. His duffle bag slung over his shoulder seems to weigh about a million pounds, even though he weighed it three days ago to make sure it was under the carry-on limit; it almost knocks him off balance as he reaches the bottom step, but he manages to steady himself on the railing, squeezing his eyes shut against a sudden wave of dizziness.
Despite the early hour, he can hear his friends and the Molinas moving about the kitchen: Reggie and Carlos bickering over the cereal box, Ray reminding them they need to finish the milk so it doesn’t go bad while they’re gone, Julie and Luke duetting Good Morning from Singing in the Rain like Luke didn’t spend six years telling Alex his interest in musicals was boring and stupid.
Alex knows he should go join them, should choke down some breakfast because airplane food will make him even more nauseous than he already is, should put on a convincing smile and tease his friends and show them all he’s fine. Instead, he stands there at the bottom of the stairs a little longer, gripping the railing with one hand and his duffle bag with the other and trying to breathe.
He jumps when a hand lands on his arm, because he didn’t hear anyone approach.
“Alex?” Ray Molina says softly, his worried face swimming into focus. “Are you feeling okay, mijo? You look… not well.”
God, is it that obvious? Can Ray really tell just by looking at him that Alex has never felt so terribly Not Well in his life? He glances nervously over Ray’s shoulder, trying to see into the kitchen. It doesn’t look like his friends heard—they’re not paying him and Ray any attention at all, too focused on their breakfasts and each other. Alex feels an extra swell of gratitude for Julie’s dad, who must’ve clocked that something was wrong from all the way across the room and chose to come over here and ask Alex about it in private instead of shouting from the kitchen where everyone could hear him.
It’s the little things like this that have helped Alex learn how to trust Ray, after months of shying away from his parental affection. Alex knows, because Ray’s proven it to him again and again, that no matter what he says now, Ray will listen, and respect Alex’s feelings, and do everything he can not to embarrass him.
Maybe it’s because he knows Ray won’t push him farther than he’s able to go that tears spring to Alex’s eyes, and he knuckles at them like a little kid, drags in a wobbly breath, and croaks, “‘Mokay, ‘m ready to go.”
Ray’s worried frown only deepens, and his grip tightens on Alex’s arm—maybe because Alex is swaying a little, the floor tilting underneath his feet, or maybe just because Ray finds the combination of Alex’s froggy throat and labored breathing particularly concerning.
“Why don’t you sit down a minute, lindo?” Ray gently suggests, and before Alex can protest, he’s sitting on the bottom step with no memory of how he got there. Ray’s crouched down in front of him, one hand still wrapped around Alex’s arm, the other pressed to his forehead. “You don’t feel warm, but you are a little clammy, I think you might be coming down with something. Do you think you can manage a plane ride? Or do you want to stay home today?”
“Who’s staying home?” a voice says from the kitchen—of course, that’s what someone overheard—and Julie appears over her dad’s shoulder, eyes bright with concern. “Alex? Are you okay?”
He hears the rest of the conversation die down in the kitchen behind her, hears the clanking of spoons being placed back into bowls, chairs being pushed back from the table, Luke and Reggie and Carlos’s concerned voices rising up, what’s going on? Did Dad say—? Is Alex okay?
No. No, he’s not okay. He’s so not okay that he buries his face in his knees and finally lets tears escape his eyes even when it makes his throat sting and his chest go tight.
“Julie, baby, give him some space,” Ray’s voice whispers. “You and the boys go put the bags in the car, I’ll take care of Alex.”
“But Dad, are we still—”
“Vete, mija. Ahora.”
Footsteps, and whispered conversations, and the gentle click of a door closing—Alex thinks there must be more, but his focus keeps drifting in and out. If his face weren’t lying in a pool of his own tears, he’d be halfway to falling asleep.
“Alex,” Ray murmurs, gently rubbing Alex’s arm. “Look at me, niño, I wanna see how bad this is.”
Alex slowly raises his head and sniffles pitifully. “It’s not that bad—I just—” But the lies that usually come so easily to him are nowhere to be found. He doesn’t even care so much about missing the trip at this point—sure, yeah, he’s bummed, but not enough to counteract how miserable he feels—but if him staying home means the rest of them can’t go… He wouldn’t be able to deal with that. His cheeks flush hot, and he ducks his head, whispers, “I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. Just talk to me, Alex.” Ray smooths his hair back again, his fingers dragging over Alex’s scalp; it feels so good, he almost can’t hear Ray speaking. “Can you tell me what hurts?”
“Everything.”
“Come on, niño, tell me your symptoms. Do we need to go to the hospital? Do you need a doctor? Or just to go back to bed?”
“No, no, no hospital,” Alex pleads, dragging in a deep breath as if to prove that he can. It catches in his lungs and he has to hide his face in his knees again to cough, rough and wet. He ends the fit with a groan. “It’s just… just the flu or something.”
Ray must know that the fact that Alex is admitting anything’s wrong at all—calling it the flu and not just a cold or allergies or a sleepless night—means that it’s bad, because he doesn’t make him say anything more. “Okay. Okay, that’s okay. You’re not gonna do anything you’re not up for, okay? You’ll stay right here until you’re feeling better.”
But Alex can’t allow himself to be relieved just yet. “But you’ll still go, right? The rest of you? You won’t—”
He can’t even say it. Because he can’t even imagine the horror of knowing Ray canceled this trip just because of him.
“No,” Ray’s quick to assure him. “Well—I don’t know. I don’t think you should be alone right now, sweetheart, your breathing sounds rough and you look just awful.”
He feels just awful. More tears pool in his eyes. “Reggie’s been so excited,” he pleads, his voice not much more than a wet rasp. “I can’t make him miss this, please, I can’t—”
Alex knows he should pull himself together, knows that spiraling into an anxiety attack isn’t going to help his case here. He doesn’t even know what his case is, just that Ray can’t cancel this trip, but also Alex is so not well enough to go. But it’s not even 5am and his head is pounding and Ray’s being so gentle with him, Alex just wants to cry.
“Shh, respira,” Ray soothes, rubbing a hand down Alex’s arm while he surreptitiously checks his watch. Alex can feel his breathing getting worse, each inhale closer to a wheeze, but he can’t help it. He knows what Ray’s thinking: if any of them are going to the airport this morning, they need to leave soon. Alex is holding everybody up. Alex is causing so much trouble.
“Let’s talk about your options, Alex,” Ray says firmly, and the words cut through Alex’s panic a little bit, startle his first clear breath into him. “Three choices, okay?”
He looks up at Ray with teary eyes, manages another breath, and nods.
This is a thing they do, a thing Ray pulled out of a book or learned from Trevor Wilson’s therapist or something and cautiously suggested a few weeks into Alex’s second life after a particularly bad anxiety attack happened to coincide with Ray and Alex being the only ones in the house. It took a few tries for Alex to accept it as helpful and not patronizing, but now, when Alex gets too caught up in all the different ways something could go (and all the different ways something could go wrong), Ray helps him narrow it down to three concrete options. Because three possible scenarios are so much more manageable than the millions in his head.
“Option one,” Ray continues after a moment of thought. “Everyone goes back to bed. And I change our plane tickets. And we see how you’re feeling tomorrow.”
Alex opens his mouth to protest and a tiny, hoarse whimper escapes.
Ray holds up a calming hand. “Option two, you have a little something to eat and you take some cold and flu medicine. And you get through the plane ride and then sleep this off in the hotel while we’re all at the park.”
Alex swallows painfully, snaking an arm around his stomach, nauseous at just the thought of trying to fly six hours without throwing up, and teary all over again because these are all terrible options what is he going to do—
Ray takes a deep breath. “Option three… I take the rest of the kids, and I ask someone to come here and be with you until we get back. Or until you’re feeling well enough to join us, whichever comes first.”
Relief washes over Alex like a wave, his muscles relaxing so intensely he feels sore from it, because finally an option that sounds actually sort of okay. Sure, Ray is still losing out on the price of a plane ticket, and Alex doesn’t love the idea of being sick around anyone else, but at least he can hide out in his room most of the day, and it’s not like he’s a little kid, they won’t be babysitting him, it’ll just be so Ray knows he didn’t die.
He doesn’t even think to wonder who Ray would ask to come be with him. Just takes another deep breath and croaks, “I, uh. I don’t hate option three.” And even though he’s already said this, and even though it’s gotta be kind of self-explanatory at this point, he feels the need to add, “I don’t want you guys to cancel or postpone, but I… I just can’t.”
“I understand, mijo,” Ray says, warm and serious, like he really means it. He cups Alex’s cheek with one hand, gently rubbing his thumb over the tear tracks on Alex’s face. “Thank you for being honest with me.”
“Th-thank you,” Alex says right back, his voice just above a whisper. “For—for not making me go.”
He doesn’t say any more. Doesn’t say that his parents would have, or they’d have let him stay home but they’d have resented him so openly for messing with their plans. He thinks Ray knows.
Ten minutes later, Alex is back in bed, curled up on his side, shivering even with the blanket pulled over him. He can hear the gentle commotion downstairs, Ray updating Julie and Carlos and the boys, their hushed questions and sharp concern.
Before he knows it, they’re all gathered in his bedroom doorway with huge, sympathetic eyes, and Alex is so drained their voices overlap, oh no, we’re so sorry, Alex and we love you and please feel better filtering through his drifting consciousness as Julie, Luke, Reggie, and Carlos’s faces swim in and out of view.
Just being horizontal is making his eyes heavy, and their worried faces are making his stomach clench, but he manages to pull his lips into something approaching a smile and croak, “No, it’s fine. Go have tons of fun and tell me all about it, okay?”
They don’t look any less worried, but Alex doesn’t stay awake long enough to let it bother him.
For the record, Ray does call Victoria first.
He doesn’t have a whole lot of options here. While the boys are, for all intents and purposes, alive again—they have beating hearts and working lungs, they sleep and eat and can obviously get sick—some of their ghostly abilities have hung around, and there are only a handful of people who know about them. Over the last few months, the boys have gotten a great handle on knowing when they can poof and where to and from, whom it’s safe to walk through walls around and whom it’s best to disappear from entirely.
The list of living people outside their immediate family who know the truth is short and concise—Victoria, Flynn and her parents, the boys’ therapists, and Trevor—because they all decided it was safest that way.
Actually, that’s not true. Luke’s parents know the boys are alive, but not the whole extent of the ghost thing, and Reggie’s mother was informed but responded with a restraining order in Ray’s name and nothing else. Ray never managed to get in touch with the Mercers, and Alex assured him he didn’t have to try.
The point is, Ray doesn’t know how well Alex will be able to control his ghost powers or his restraint from talking about them while he’s this sick, so the best way to go here is for Ray to find someone on their shortlist of confidants who can come over and keep an eye on him. At least then, that’ll give Alex one less thing to worry about here.
But Victoria doesn’t pick up. Any of the six times Ray calls her. Part of him wants to give her the benefit of the doubt here—it’s not even five in the morning, and he did tell her point blank the other day that he didn’t need her help with this trip—but the other part of him is a little annoyed because of all the times for Victoria to not be doing yoga at the crack of dawn, this is a really inconvenient one.
He gives up after the eighth call goes to voicemail and tugs anxiously at his hair while he thumbs through his contacts. He’s running out of time. If he doesn’t find someone soon, they’re going to miss their flight and then this won’t have even been worth it at all.
He does consider calling Willie, his thumb hovering over their contact for a minute or two. Willie’s older than Alex no matter which way you look at it, and very mature from what Ray can tell thus far. They have their own place, their own job. They looked after Alex quite responsibly the last time he was sick, and if Ray and the kids weren’t going so far away, then Willie’s help might be all Alex would need.
But the last time Alex got sick, he had an asthma attack that sent Willie running to Ray for help, and even though Alex has a working inhaler now, Ray hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it since. He trusts Willie, but he really thinks what Alex needs right now is a real adult.
Mr. Taylor picks up, but only because he’s on a business trip in Moscow, where it’s almost noon. Mrs. Taylor picks up, and Ray only remembers after they’ve had an entire conversation that she takes Ambien before bed and has definitely not processed a word he’s said.
He even tries to call Flynn directly, because a responsible kid like her, who knows Alex well and is on a first name basis with the receptionist at Urgent Care, is better than nobody, and if she can just get Alex through the night, her mom can come bail her out when her sleeping pills wear off, but the call doesn’t even go through. He’s about to try again when Julie pokes her head through the front door and says, “Papi? Is everything all right?”
Ray sighs and tries to paste on a reassuring smile. “Sorry, mija, I’m just trying to find someone who can keep an eye on Alex while we’re gone. I can’t get a hold of Flynn, do you know if she’s—”
“Oh,” Julie says, her eyes a little wide as she pulls her phone out of her back pocket. “Um. I actually think she may have blocked your number? They were pretty annoyed when you didn’t invite them to go to Disney World with us.”
It’s too early for Ray to deal with the chaotic thought processes of teenage demigirls. He just shakes his head and mutters, “Does she want to come now? We’ve got an extra ticket.”
Julie offers him a sympathetic smile. “I’ll text her, but they don’t keep her ringer on at night so they probably won’t see. Isn’t there anyone else you can ask? What about Tía?”
“Voicemail,” Ray says simply.
“Willie?”
“Alex is too sick, mija, he needs a real adult looking after him while I’m so far away.”
Julie winces sympathetically. “Yeah, I guess that’s fair.”
Ray sighs. He’s starting to get a headache from all this stress and not enough sleep; he rubs absently at his forehead, closing his eyes for some relief.
But they immediately fly open when Julie says, “Have you called Trevor?”
“What?”
“Mr. Wilson,” Julie clarifies, as if Ray could’ve thought she was talking about anyone else. “He’s around, isn’t he?”
He probably is, to be fair. Trevor hasn’t been an active musician in years, and ever since the boys came back, he’s been trying even harder to stay out of the public eye, so as to avoid the risk of someone making a connection between Trevor Wilson and Julie and the Phantoms. Other than meditation and therapy—as far as Ray knows anyway—Trevor doesn’t do much.
But after five years without contact and only six months of reconciliation, Ray and Trevor’s relationship is… strained, to say the least. They’ve only spent a handful of moments alone together, all of them awkward and tense. They haven’t talked nearly enough about all the things they should talk about. Trevor comes over for dinner a few times a month, or when the boys’ new, semi-legal, identities are giving them trouble, or when Ray’s just overtired and overwhelmed by the responsibility of raising five kids.
But every time, Trevor never stays past sundown, or for more than two or three hours. And he never quite looks Ray directly in the eye. And Luke, Alex, and Reggie spend most of the time Trevor’s there glaring at him, even though he gave them a very well-articulated (in Ray’s opinion) apology and has been nothing but helpful since he came back into their lives.
The last thing Ray wants is for Alex to feel worse because his ex-friend has been sent to babysit him.
Actually, even more than that… Ray’s just worried that Trevor will say no.
But Julie’s right. Trevor is most likely around. And Alex really can’t be alone right now, so Ray has to do something.
“I’ll call him,” he says, shooting his daughter what he hopes is a sufficiently reassuring smile. “You go wait in the car with the others.”
Julie nods, but hesitates a moment, shifting nervously from foot to foot. Ray waits patiently, finger poised above Trevor’s contact on his phone, until his daughter gets up the courage to ask, “Alex will be all right, won’t he?”
Ray’s heart gives a pang of pride. “I’m sure he will,” he says confidently. “Even if Trevor can’t, I’ll make sure someone’s here to keep an eye on him. It’s probably just the flu.”
“Luke said he used to get sick a lot. And he had that bad cold last month, where his asthma got real bad. I’m just worried, with the ghost stuff…”
“I know, mija. I’ll take care of him.”
Julie nods again, but still doesn’t turn to leave. After a moment, she adds, “I just think Trevor might know how to help. If you can get a hold of him.”
Ray lets out a tired sigh. Of course, she’s right. The Alex that Trevor knew is barely six months gone, even if the Bobby that Alex knew hasn’t seen the light of day in twenty-something years. If anyone would know what Alex needs, it would be Trevor.
“Thank you, mija,” he says, offering Julie a reassuring smile. “Go wait with the boys, will you? I’ll be right out.”
Julie nods and hurries out the door, and Ray takes a deep breath before scrolling through his contacts once more.
The line picks up right away. “Go for Trevor.”
Ray’s breath catches in his throat. Even after six months of having Trevor back in his life again, it’s still strange to hear his voice again, when he’d avoided hearing it for so many years. Strange isn’t the right word. It’s not a bad thing.
Still, it’s five o’clock in the morning and Trevor sounds like he was already awake, which… hurts, if Ray’s being honest with himself. Because six years ago, he’d have known why. Trevor probably would’ve called him if he didn’t feel well or couldn’t sleep. And now, if this thing hadn’t happened with Alex, Ray probably wouldn’t have known at all.
“Heeellllo?” Trevor says after a minute.
Ray clears his throat, kickstarting his brain back into gear. “Trevor! Uh, it’s Ray.”
“I did figure,” Trevor deadpans, “considering your contact name came up on my Caller ID.”
It takes Ray a moment too long to realize he’s being teased. A laugh startles out of him—he’s not used to Trevor’s humor anymore. “I have a sort of favor to ask you… but I didn’t really expect you to be up this early. You’re not sick too, are you?”
“Oh, no, I was just—wait, what do you mean ‘too’?”
“That’s why I’m calling.” Ray checks his watch again—they’re really cutting it close now. “Alex came down with something, he’s not going to be able to travel with us today, but he insisted I take the rest of the kids.”
Trevor pauses just a tad too long for it to be natural; so long that Ray starts to check the call hasn’t dropped, before his voice returns, tonal in the way it only gets when he’s fronting. “I’m so sorry to hear he’s not feeling well.”
Ray runs a hand down his face. “I know the boys are still getting used to you… but I really don’t feel right leaving Alex alone while he’s sick, and there’s no one else I can ask. Would you mind too terribly keeping an eye on him for a few days?”
Another pause, this one accompanied by some shuffling in the distance, like maybe Trevor’s getting out of bed or rifling through a drawer. “I can’t guarantee that Alex will be happy to see me,” he warns, voice low, “but of course I want to help. Let me just leave a note for Carrie and I’ll be right over.”
Relief washes over Ray, heady enough that he almost doesn’t notice the strange inflection in Trevor’s voice, the way his words stumble over each other like he’s worried he won’t be able to get them all out in time.
If he does notice, he elects to ignore it. Too many problems to deal with already.
“Thank you, Trev,” Ray says as genuinely as he possibly can. “You have no idea how much I appreciate it.”
And he hangs up before Trevor can change his mind.
The house is quiet when Trevor slips through the door, pocketing the key Ray gave him three months ago, avoiding eye contact as he pressed it into Trevor’s hand, for “emergencies, or, you know, just if you need me—anything. If you need anything”.
His heart hasn’t stopped racing since he got off the phone. He almost told his driver to turn around six or seven times on the way over here, only forcing his mouth shut when he remembered the exhaustion in Ray’s voice.
And the promise Trevor made to himself when Ray first reached out all those months ago. That he wouldn’t abandon his family ever again.
But he can’t stop thinking about what a terrible idea this all is— him and Alex (Alex!!!) alone in a house together for at least a few days, while Alex is sick and vulnerable and all their usual conflict buffers are 2500 miles away. It’s not like he and Alex fight or anything—definitely not like they used to back in high school—but it’s not hard for Trevor to tell that Alex isn’t exactly comfortable having Trevor back in his life again.
This would just be easier if Ray were here, is all. Or if it were Julie or Carlos—or even Luke or Reggie—who was sick. Or if he and Alex had been closer, before.
But despite his concerns about how smoothly this is going to go, Trevor’s here. Because he told Ray he would be. And more than anything, Trevor’s trying to make things easier for Ray. After so many years of making things hard.
He lays the plastic grocery bag of supplies he brought on the kitchen counter, listening for any signs of a sick teenage former ghost moving around upstairs. There’s no sound, so he takes his time unpacking. Knowing Ray, the house is probably fully stocked with medicine and thermometers, but Trevor figured it couldn’t hurt to bring some things as well. Some fresh ingredients for tomato soup, since Ray always empties his fridge before going out of town. This fancy (way too expensive) orange juice Carrie swears by when she loses her voice. A tub of VapoRub he remembers Alex using in high school once—he said it made him sneeze like crazy, but it was the only thing that could help him breathe when he was sick.
It’s just hard to know what to expect. Ray didn’t say what Alex had come down with, so Trevor just tried to be as prepared as he could. And told his driver to hang around in case he forgot something.
Trevor’s phone buzzes in his back pocket, just as he’s unloading the last of the groceries into Ray’s bare cupboards. He tugs it out with clumsy fingers—At the airport. Reggie’s worried about security, poor thing. Any advice?
Trevor’s heart skips a beat or two. It still startles him, even after six months, every time Ray pulls out his old co-parenting techniques on him, asks for help with the boys because he wants Trevor’s opinion, not just because he feels like he has to. Brbry wrks wndrs, he texts back, followed by a string of half-sensical emojis and then, You’ve got this. I got Alex. Enjoy your vacation, old man, you need one.
He knows it’s risky—Carrie always says she knows something’s wrong when he texts in complete sentences, and though he and Ray have gotten more comfortable with every Friday night dinner in the last few months, they still haven’t quite yet mastered the teasing banter they used to thrive on back in the day—but he sends the message and then shoves his phone back in his pocket before he can overthink it.
The house feels more silent, somehow, than it did just a minute ago.
And then a door upstairs slams open. And Trevor hears the unmistakable sounds of someone racing down the hall, falling to their knees on the bathroom floor, and retching into the toilet.
“Shit,” Trevor hisses, and doesn’t miss a beat before running for the stairs.
A lot of things have changed since Trevor reunited with his old bandmates, twenty-five years after losing them, but even taking those early days into account, Trevor doesn’t think he’s ever seen Alex looking as awful as he does now. Slumped on the bathroom floor, hands braced against the toilet seat, he’s pale and flushed at the same time, sweat sticking his bangs to his forehead. His whole body is trembling, and his face is tinted a sickly green, but it doesn’t look like he’s actually thrown anything up.
Trevor hesitates in the open doorway for a fraction of a second, just long enough for Alex to lurch forward again. It’s this awful, painful-sounding dry heaving, the kind that only starts up when you’ve already thrown up everything in your stomach. As Trevor stands, stupidly, and watches, Alex presses his forehead to the toilet seat with a tiny, exhausted, miserable whimper, and Trevor jolts back into action.
Before he can question what he’s doing, Trevor’s down on the floor behind Alex, tugging him upright and into his chest, brushing his sweaty hair off his forehead and rubbing circles into his back. Alex is too warm, and too thin, under Trevor’s touch, but he doesn’t fight back or pull away like he would’ve twenty-five years ago.
Not that Trevor—not that Bobby—would’ve had the guts to do something like this twenty-five years ago. Trevor’s acting purely on instinct here, but not his Alex instincts (those would’ve told him to slip some saltines under the door and bolt, probably). He’s acting more like he would if it were Carrie here with him on the bathroom floor.
That probably means something, but Trevor would prefer not to psychoanalyze himself right now, thank you very much.
Alex leans back into Trevor’s chest with another breathy whimper, snaking a trembling arm around his stomach. His eyes are closed; Trevor doesn’t know if Alex has even realized who he is yet, but he knows all too well that instinctive, delirious, nauseous feeling when you’re so sick you just want to be held and supported for a second, no matter who it is providing that support.
So Trevor gives him a few minutes, not just to see if Alex will retch again, but to let him catch his bearings. And then he rubs a hand down Alex’s arm and says very softly, “Alex, sweetie, I gotta get you some water, okay? Can you make it back to bed or do you think you might be sick again?”
Alex goes so tense and rigid, Trevor thinks for a moment the answer is the latter. But then, he leans forward, shaking, so that he’s not leaning into Trevor’s chest anymore, and he drops his head into his hands as he groans, “What are you doing here?”
Trevor carefully pulls his hand away so that they’re no longer touching at all. He swallows nervously, worried he’s screwed this up already. He got so caught up in… parenting that he sort of forgot whom he was dealing with, for a moment. But this is Alex. Alex, who got bitey and volatile any time anyone tried to show him concern, who shied away from touch on his best days and refused to admit when he craved it, who fought with Bobby every chance he got and snapped, Damn it, Shaw, mind your own fucking business, whenever Bobby tried to get closer to him.
And Trevor just called him sweetie. What was he thinking? Where was his BRAIN?
“Uh… I…” he begins, very carefully extracting himself from between Alex and the wall and clambering to his feet. “Ray asked me to come keep an eye on you.” He adds, trying to lighten the mood, “Good thing, too. He didn’t say this was a stomach bug.”
“It’s not,” Alex grumbles, still hiding his face in his hands. “I was just… Anxious. I’m done, I’m fine now.”
“Okay,” Trevor says slowly, uncertain if he should believe him. “If you’re… sure.” He makes a mental note to put a trash can near Alex’s bed anyway, just in case. “Here, let me help you up.”
He holds a hand out, but Alex snaps, “I’m good,” and moves to push himself up off the ground on his own. His legs wobble before there’s even much weight on them. Trevor silently tucks an arm under Alex’s, and Alex miraculously doesn’t fight him.
The short walk from the bathroom to the guest bedroom that’s become Alex’s in the last few months seems to take forever, each of their steps agonizingly slow, but eventually Trevor gets Alex back in bed, lying down on his side with a gentle hand curled over his stomach.
Trevor stalls for a minute by placing an empty wastebasket at the head of the bed in case Alex needs it, then hovers over by the doorway and says, “Okay. I’m gonna get you some water, Alex. And maybe something to eat so you can take some medicine. And then you can go back to sleep.”
Alex’s eyes are already closed. He hunches further down under the covers, mumbles, “Not hungry. Just gonna sleep.”
Trevor hesitates, not sure if he should push. But his instincts take over once again and he tries, “Alex… You need something in your stomach so it doesn’t hurt so much if you get sick again.”
“I’ll just throw it up,” Alex replies right away, cracking an eye open just to glare at him. “Is that what you want?”
It’s the exact kind of thing he would’ve said back in the 90s, petty and passive aggressive and too bitey to be anything but a front, and… it reminds Trevor of Carrie.
Instead of sounding like someone that Bobby once found completely infuriating and unmanageable as a teenager, he sounds like… Trevor’s kid.
It puts things into a different perspective, is all. Reminds him that though it’s been years for him, Alex is still only seventeen.
So he takes a breath, and tries again. “Throwing up something feels ages better than throwing up nothing, trust me.” Boy, does Trevor know. “What do you think you could eat right now?”
Alex hesitates, but some of the anger leaves his expression, and there’s less spitfire in his voice when he says, “I dunno.”
But, hey, at least they’re getting somewhere! “I saw Ray has bananas and crackers in the kitchen. Which of those would you like?”
Alex turns his head to hide in his pillow, groans a little, mutters, “Neither. I don’t know. Nothing.”
Worry, sour and thick, sinks into Trevor’s own stomach. He can’t help wondering if Alex is even sicker than they thought, or if something else is going on here. Because it sounds like Alex really would… prefer… to throw up nothing. Because eating would be worse.
And Trevor remembers that feeling.
“Okay,” he breathes. “I’ll be right back.”
Alex neither responds nor lifts his head out of the pillow, so Trevor leaves him alone and heads downstairs to the kitchen. If Alex wants to be stubborn, that’s fine, but Trevor’s not going to just sit around and encourage… whatever’s going on in his brain and body right now. He grabs a banana and chops it into bite-size slices, places them next to a few plain crackers on a plate, adds a glob of sunflower butter for a little bit of protein. He fills a cup with water and another with ice chips, because he remembers all too well how on some days one was easier than the other. He finds a thermometer and a bottle of ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet above the fridge. And then he brings it all back up the stairs to Alex’s room and sets the tray on the bedside table.
Alex turns his head to blink at him, a little blearily, a little surprised (like maybe he thought Trevor wasn’t coming back). He ignores the food entirely in favor of glaring at the thermometer as Trevor turns it on. “Ray said I didn’t have a fever.”
It pricks under Trevor’s skin a little, some of his old Bobby-irritation rising to the surface at the clear implication that Ray’s authority means more than Trevor’s even when Ray’s not even here. But he takes a breath, reminds himself that he’s the adult here, and says, “I think you might’ve started running one since he left, but let’s just get a number either way, so we can compare later if we need to.”
Alex’s eyes narrow, like he’s deciding whether to argue or not. But luckily, as soon as Trevor holds the thermometer out, Alex reaches for it with one shaky hand and sticks it under his tongue.
The next minute contains the most awkward silence Trevor has ever experienced in his life. It’s a relief when the thing beeps, and even more of one when the screen reads 100.4 and not something higher.
“A low fever,” he says, offering Alex what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “But you should have some medicine. Can we try some water first, and work up to it?”
“I don’t—” Alex starts, then huffs out an exhausted sigh, coughs a little, and closes his eyes.
There are any number of ways he might’ve meant to finish that sentence—I don’t want to, I don’t need your help, I don’t feel good. In response to any and all of them, Trevor says, “I know, hun.”
Alex gives a low hum, almost a growl, in the back of his throat, but doesn’t comment on the pet name. He’s quiet a moment, and then he says, “You’re different.”
Trevor bites back his surprise. “I… well, yeah, Alex. I grew up.”
Alex hums again, and blinks his eyes open, and then with another ticklish cough, pushes himself up so he’s sitting against his pillows piled up near the headboard. “Water,” he whispers without looking Trevor in the eye. “Then… crackers, I guess.”
Relief tumbles through Trevor’s stomach, dragging his lips up into an involuntary smile. He fights to clamp it down before Alex can see. “Good. That’s good.”
They go slowly, but Alex manages to keep down a few crackers, a cup of water, and two Advil. He’s coughing more by the time he waves away Trevor’s offer of juice or tea, but he doesn’t seem as nauseous anymore. Maybe he was telling the truth, and it really was just nerves making him sick to his stomach earlier. Maybe not. Either way, Trevor’s glad he’s keeping things down now.
“Get some more sleep, okay?” Trevor follows his instincts again, even if it means ignoring his common sense, and strokes Alex’s hair back under the guise of feeling his forehead. Alex closes his eyes, letting out a soft breath, which Trevor takes as a good sign. He’s reluctant to pull away and start gathering up the tray. “I’ll be right downstairs if you need me, okay?”
Alex nods and shuffles down to lie on his back, pulling the covers up to his chin. Trevor turns to leave, but his phone buzzing in his back pocket stops him. He mutters, “Sorry, just gotta…” and puts the tray back on the nightstand to free a hand. “Oh, Ray texted me. They’re waiting to board, he wanted to know if you were still awake, if you wanted to talk to everyone before they had to turn their phones off.”
Alex perks up immediately, coughing to clear his throat and holding a hand out expectantly. Trevor starts the call and then hands his phone over. He reaches to pick up the tray again, planning to clean up downstairs so that Alex can have some privacy, but Alex’s fumbling fingers grab at the sleeve of Trevor’s shirt.
He stops, gives Alex a questioning look. Alex doesn’t so much as spare him a glance, Trevor’s phone held to his ear with one hand and his sleeve grasped in the other.
Trevor sits down on the side of the bed and breathes through the confusing jumble of emotions in his stomach. But Alex visibly relaxes and lets go of Trevor’s shirt. For a moment, the only sound in the room is both of their breathing and the phone softly ringing.
Then, Ray’s voice comes through the speaker, loud enough for Trevor to hear when he’s sitting this close. “Alex? Honey, how are you feeling?”
“‘Mokay,” Alex rasps, tangling his free hand in his blanket. “Threw up this morning.”
“You did? Are you all right? Do you need me to come home? Cause I can—”
“No, Ray, it’s okay.” Alex coughs a little, sniffs, and says, “Bobby’s taking good care of me.”
Trevor’s breath catches. It’s like all his concerns and reservations from earlier this morning have been swept away. It’s like all the issues he and Alex had in high school, all the issues they’ve had since Alex came back to life, none of them ever existed. All that exists is them, here, now. Trevor’s going to do everything he can today, and for as long as he needs to, to make sure Alex is feeling better by the time Ray and the kids get home.
And in return, Alex will trust him. That’s new.
Not that Trevor’s in any state to complain. Sitting there, listening to Alex assure Ray that he’ll be all right, hearing Ray say in return how much they’ll all miss him, knowing that when Alex hangs up and goes back to sleep, Trevor won’t have anything to do but go downstairs and wait for him to wake up…
It feels nice, is all. Like he’s gotten his family back, after months of trying.
And he’s not going to lose them this time. Not again.