Chapter Text
He's not sure what time it is when he starts hearing shouts outside his tent.
Even longer, and he realises with the smallest spark of anxiety that everyone must be helping pack up.
They're supposed to leave soon. Last night was the only night they were planning to stay.
He should really get up.
He groans, grudgingly pushes the blankets away, wills hismelf to sit up. The moment he's upright, though, the room is spinning and his heart stutters in protest.
Coughs push out of his lungs with no warning, and he groans, grimacing in pain.
He wants to stand-
well, wants is a strong word. He should stand. He wants to go back to sleep for twelve hours.
Actually- now that he's looking at it, he doesn't even know if he can make it to standing.
He feels heavy, like he can't lift his head with the lead weight pulling it down.
And everything's hot, like they're not all in the middle of god-knows-where, in the dead of Australian spring season.
The floor is spinning, now, not just the room. He squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again, curses under his breath.
Still spinning.
His head's pounding; his chest feels tight and gravely.
Sweat travels down his back, drying there from the cold. He swallows thickly, feels his stomach churn horribly in protest.
He can't think.
He hears the tent flap open, the floor crinkling when someone steps in.
"Schlatt, mate?"
He can't bring himself to look up. He thinks he might throw up if he does.
"I think he's out of it, Mase."
"Nah, he didn't drink last night."
He musters enough willpower to bring a hand up and scrub at his face. He so tired. The tent floor crinkles again and suddenly Mason is standing right in front of him.
When Schlatt still doesn't look up, Mason crouches, meeting him at eye level.
"Schlatt, mate, you alright? Y'look awful."
Schlatt wants to throw back a sarcastic 'thanks, man, real nice of you', but Mason's brown eyes are wide and worried- genuinely concerned. Schlatt can't help but be honest.
"Don't feel good," he murmurs, resting his forehead on the heel of his hand.
He jumps when cold hands press against the side of his neck, taking Mason's mumbled "sorry" with only a half-hearted glare.
"Yeah, y'definitely have a fever, mate."
"Great," Schlatt muttered.
"He's sick?" The other person asks, worried, and this time Schlatt recognises it as Swagger.
"Sorry," Schlatt says softly, because he feels like he has to.
"Don't worry 'bout it, mate," Mason tells him, genuine in his reassurance. "We'll take care o' the packin' and puttin' stuff away 'n the van."
Everything's basically done," Swagger chimes in. "We should probably get him outside so we can pack this tent, too. The faster we get outta here, the faster we can get back to HQ."
"I'm right here, y'know," Schlatt complains, though there's not much bite to it.
"Right," Mason agrees, placing a hand on Schlatt's shoulder, and Schlatt can hear the grin on his friend's face. "And we gotta get ya not here."
Then he's standing, holding a hand out to Schlatt, who looks up at him carefully, head throbbing behind his eyes in angry protest.
"C'mon," Mason urges, still smiling.
Schlatt rolls his eyes, instantly regrets it.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm gettin' to it, man," he mutters, taking Mason's hand.
It takes a bit of adjustment and an entire arsenal of half-baked insults between them, but soon Mason's got Schlatt upright and securely tucked to his side.
Schlatt, for his part, is incredibly grateful for good friends, because he is sure that if Mason weren't supporting him, he'd have faceplanted immediately.
Swagger holds the flap open as they pathetically limp out together, and though his stomach has calmed and the spinning slowed, his eyes are not happy with being up and about, and exposed to light.
Everything's so bright- what the hell?
He hears footsteps rushing towards them, and voices are suddenly clamouring all over each other, all vying for answers and attention.
He's about to grate his voice and yell at them to shut up, but Mason beats him to it, though in a much quieter fashion.
"'S sick," Mason explains simply, and then says something else, but Schlatt tunes it out in favour of staying awake and keeping his nausea subdued.
Then they're moving again, and Schlatt's being lowered onto the ridiculously large folding chair they'd set up the morning before.
A blanket is draped over him, and he curls up, feeling absolutely miserable. He tugs the blanket until his face is completely sheilded from the cold.
"Stay here, mate," Mason tells him. "We'll come getchya when the van's ready, yeah?"
Schlatt just grunts in response, eyes slipping shut as he returns to the blissful darkness of sleep.
Everything is hazy and hot and horrible in the car. It's an hour and a half trip there, he remembers- but can't recall most of what happens on the way back.
Travis lets him lay his head in his lap, didn't even bat an eye when the sunlight gets too bright again and Schlatt has to press his face into his sweater.
Everything past that, though- only hazy, vague memories.
He knew it was too hot, his head pounding too hard.
He remembers fingers gently grasping his chin, a muffled voice calling him. Checking on him, probably.
He's fine.
He swears he's fine.
At least he would be, if everyone would just leave him the hell alone.
He can deal with this on his own, always has.
. . . But Travis' sweater is soft and feels nice against his hot face.
Travis can stay, he decides.
And Charlie. He has nice hugs.
Ted, too. And Mason.
. . . And maybe Cooper. He'll think about it.
He shivers, feeling too cold. He pulls the strings of his hoodie until his face is covered. Someone rubs a hand up and down his arm, and it helps a little.
He grunts in lieu of a thank you, and coughs into Travis' sweater. His throat has been on fire since the day before, making it hard to talk, much less cough.
He hears someone respond to him, though it's still incredibly muffled.
He doesn't feel good.
He knows he's definitely sick, but he has no idea what it is- doesn't even want to think about it.
He'll just panic and feel that oh-so-fun knot of perpetual anxiety sitting smugly in the pit of his stomach.
He startles when someone pats his head, maybe trying to make him feel better.
But right now he feels like what Ted had said it was like to be really high: everything hurts, nothing is nice, nothing is good, everything either wants to kill him or hurt him.
The pat on his head kind of breaks the camel's back in the worst way possible.
He feel something in his chest twist and drop sickeningly, and before he's even fully aware of it he's shooting upwards with a strangled gasp as Travis calls his name and panic grips sticky fingers around his throat, cruel and unrelenting.
He quickly curls into a ball, because it's too much- too much- and suddenly there are hands everywhere- stop touching him he can't breathe stop-
"Guys! Give him some room, geez."
He hears Travis' meek voice over the arms he's curled protectively over his face, and within moments the hands are all gone.
He lets out a shallow, shuddered breath, trying to just sit in the quiet relief.
He's wheezing, he realises. He can hear it, louder now in the sudden silence. It sounds like his lungs are dragging themselves across gravel with a badly broken arm.
He should probably be concerned about how obscenely loud it is, but he's starting to fall asleep again, still curled into a ball, leaning against the back of the seat.
"Schlatt?" Travis calls, slow and soft. "You c'n lay on me again, if you wanna."
Schlatt hesitates, unsure.
"I don't mind," Travis tells him. "Really."
Schlatt takes his time uncurling, wary of hands covering him again, and slowly scoots over until he can take his spot back on Travis' lap.
Slowly, he relaxes, and- even with the pounding in his head and the bunring in his throat and his lungs refusing to work- he finds himself falling asleep quickly.