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Sleep holds his eyes shut even as his ears snap to full alertness. Pelle knows the sound of sickness well. The retching and heaving of a tormented stomach; the ebb and flow of momentary misery.
Who it is, he thinks on for longer than he should, lays motionless in the darkness of early morning. All men sound the same when broken down to illness.
And he really does not picture himself comforting Jan Axel through hangover vomiting, and would feel too bad about having found him to back away once he was noticed. And Jan, somehow, always notices him. Jan, who wouldn't piss on him if he were on fire.
He may owe a favor or two to Jørn, but he does not picture himself comforting him either, sniveling and weeping surely. Jørn, who resorts to a childish demeanor when he is stressed, as far as Pelle has observed, and Pelle, who is no motherly presence.
He is the most indebted to Øystein, regardless of whether or not he feels compelled to aid him out of the good of his heart. Øystein, who had kept to himself in the past few days, out of a reservation Pelle assumed was founded in annoyance that he would come about a week later to discuss, after it had stewed into fury.
Another, horrible struggle and desperate flush meets his ears, and he wills himself to dispel his slumber to stagger out of bed. He should've known from the choice to hurl in the hallway bathroom that Øystein was the culprit; really, should've known from the fact that he woke up at all. They have a way of sensing one another, one laced with less malintent than Jan's premonitions.
The door is ajar, mellow light flooding into the dark, figureless hall from the dinky cluttered room. A stink follows, one that he is sure the other men will complain about if it does not dissipate by morning. He toes the door open with a socked foot, unveiling Øystein hunched over the toilet, a miserable collapsing of limbs on the floor.
Black hair shrouds his face, but when Pelle calls his name, he looks up to the ceiling. Turning must be too much work. His cheeks are red with stress, his forehead shiny with effort.
"I feel like shit," he rasps, throat raped by bile.
Pelle frowns, the lines sinking deeper than his usual, resting one do. "What happened to Mister I Don't Get Sick?" he taunts, no malice behind it, stepping into the doorframe.
Øystein still groans. "Did I," — a shudder, strong, a quick turn of his face to the bowl — "Oh, Hell. Did I wake you up?"
"Yes," Pelle says, seeing no reason to lie. Øystein would know the truth.
He disappears to grab a towel from the linen closet, returns to soak cold water into it under the faucet. The basin needs a good scrubbing. It is beginning to house dirt streaks. Kneeling next to him, he moves his bedheaded hair from his forehead and replaces it with the chill. Øystein looks ready to cry in relief.
"I'm sorry," he says, as if Pelle had complained, or hit him.
"It's fine."
"Not really," Øystein says, and wretches over the toilet again before he can explain, breaking into a coughing fit.
Pelle moves the towel to the back of his neck, gathering his hair in his fist, letting the air cool him off. The nape of his neck is drenched in sweat. "I've vomited on your floor," he reminds him. And it is, embarrassingly enough, true; they are hardly even, but maybe it will make him feel better.
He huffs a laugh despite the wheezing hack it inspires. "That's right," he says. "I'm going to kill whoever gave me this shit."
"What's wrong?"
Øystein is quiet for a while, gathering his wits and words. He leans into the cold of the towel wherever it's pressed to his hot skin, allows Pelle to take his limp arms and chill the veins of his wrists. He is a dark, sullen thing in comparison to the off white of the tub behind him; of the boring walls, which Jørn had suggested they paint some nice color since Jan spends so much time in here doing his hair.
"Some bug. Started a couple'a' days ago," he begins. The lethargy radiates from him. "Shit my heart out. Now I puke all night."
"I didn't think there was something grosser than this, so thanks," Pelle teases. It makes him snort.
"I am completely empty."
"You can stop talking now," Pelle reassures.
He laughs again, holding his sides, rocking back and forth in a mixture of pain and side-splitting humor. Of course, his sides aren't that hard to split right now.
Pelle snickers, too. He lets go of his hair, rubbing a soothing hand over his back, where the notches of spine are felt through his thin t-shirt. Pelle knows it isn't the work of a week's bout of illness, and feels a pang of displeasure at the reminder of their finances, lowering his hand to the fatty small of his back, pudge gathering above his boxers' waistband.
Øystein kicks him out once he can stand. To be caught in such a vulnerable position is shameful enough, let alone to have Pelle watch him rinse the awful taste out of his mouth, bad enough to make him sick all on its own and not prone to leaving easily.
He is resigned to letting Pelle lead him into his room, though; resigned to letting him seat him on the edge of the bed so he may braid his hair to relieve some of the fever. It is thick and frizzy, strands sticking out left and right as Pelle works them together. He can see his shoulders slump more with every inch of back that is exposed to draft. He knots his hair at the end, a short lived reprieve he will hear hell for tomorrow.
"You're going to get sick," Øystein protests, when Pelle tugs on his shoulders, silently inviting him to lay down. His eyes are wide with insomnia.
"I've probably already got it, don't you think?"
He seems to contemplate. Pelle feels strange at seeing his face twisted in the expression it is, so unusually serious and pained. His brows look better when they are knitted together in immature aggression or his frown drawn in mock peevence. It is wholly new to be the caretaker, who feels regret and responsibility for the misfortune of another; as menial as his dose of it is.
"I guess so," he sighs. "Sorry."
Pelle smiles a little, and it's gone as soon as it comes. "It's okay."
Øystein sinks into him, back pressed to his front, Pelle curled around him protectively. It is a different posture than they normally take, one man too particular in how his masculinity is affected and the other uncaring as long as he is touched. Øystein's firey temple lays on Pelle's forearm, sure to cut off the circulation, but who cares; his warm arm rests atop the one thrown over his side, his hand hugging the wrist that moves as Pelle strokes his stomach.
He mutters another apology, and Pelle snaps at him to be quiet, brushing the tension away with his lips pressed to the crown of his hair. He reeks, dense and musky and sickly, but Pelle is not a field of fresh roses either, and so he suffers it to be close to him, to tell him goodnight in a sugary tone that is unlike himself, to listen to his erratic breathing even out and fall into deep, feverish sleep, full of dreams he will tell him about tomorrow afternoon.