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To put it plain and simple, Chris hadn’t been feeling 100%. He hadn’t felt so great the past three days, but it was just one of those situations where you brushed it off and powered through it. Almost like a headache that only went away once you were in absolute silence.
But as he woke up at the dreaded time of Four Thirteen AM, maybe, just maybe, he was beginning to think that maybe there was an issue arising.
You see, in situations like this, whenever he felt like he was about to suffer for the next week, he’d just down half a bottle of nyquil and sleep an hour or two earlier hoping it’d pass by the morning.
But now he was awake, very early even for him, he was beginning to realize this wasn’t something that was going to be gone in the next thirty minutes.
Wonderful…
Now, how he got whatever this was? No clue, all he knew was he felt sweaty and gross and was ninety-percent sure he was blind now. That or his vision was really spinning.
As he squinted slightly, his eyes began to adjust to the dark room. He liked sleeping in pitch black, and he was usually pretty good at seeing in the dark, but now everything felt a little fucked. Besides how he felt like he was about to tip over, even though he was only sitting up.
Swaying his legs off the side of the bed, he rested his hand on the bedside table, moving quietly as he rose to his feet.
Him and Chef didn’t sleep in the same room due to how many times it ended up with someone either accidentally kicked in the face, or waking up on the floor. So he didn’t need to worry too badly about how quiet he stepped. Only on not crashing on the ground, because that would definitely wake him up.
Navigating across the floor with far too many shirts thrown on the ground, he annoyedly stumbled his way to the door. Squinting his eyes with a hiss at the sudden light shining through the cracks as it opened. Had he forgotten to turn the Hall light off?
Was it daytime…?
No, he’d checked his phone, it was still four.
Now he’s thinking about it, he should’ve had a sip of that drink on the nightstand. He wasn’t too sure if it was vodka or not, but at this point it didn’t really matter.
On the left of the hall was the bathroom, Chef’s room opposite it. His eyes drawn towards it, he noticed the way his partners door was open, was it always like that? Definitely not.
His mind was rambling, why was he focusing on doors? He couldn’t even focus on what he was meant to be doing right now. Something to do with a room.
Bathroom, got it. Right, they kept meds or some shit in there. One of those fancy mirror-cabinets, the one where you can open it and reveal the unorganized mess of stuff you stuff in there, where something would fall on you everytime.
Thankfully he wasn’t forgetful enough to leave that light on too. Not that it’d make much of a difference to the electricity bill.
Flipping on the light, he grimaced slightly. For a moment he’d been convinced he was seeing that creepy girl from the exorcist, only to realize that it was in fact him. Yeesh.
Yeah, okay that made more sense to why he’d woken up at four. He wasn’t awake enough to know the actual reason though. Since he was still at that stage where he’s trying to figure out if he’s hungry, feels sick or some other bullshit miscommunication his body was throwing at him.
His hands moved to the tap, leaning over the sink as he splashed some water on his face to wake him up a bit. God, he needed a shower. Later, probably. When he felt more reassured that he wasn’t gonna black out.
Maybe he shouldn’t be doing things that would keep him awake, but he knew himself well enough to know that falling asleep at this point likely wasn’t going to happen.
Christ, this would be a long day. Turning the tap off and looking back up at the mirror just to double check that it was still in fact him, and wasn’t the exorcist girl he thought of a moment ago, he’d managed to confirm, yes it was him. He just looked like absolute shit.
Nothing a random handful of meds couldn’t fix!
Kidding.
As he opened the handle on the side of the mirrored cabinet, he groaned. God, he really should organize that sometime. He absolutely wasn’t going to ever , but it’s the thought that counts.
As his eyes unfocusedly-scanned through the array of medication, the best he could do was some flintstone vitamins that went off in 2008, good enough.
In all seriousness, there wasn’t actually much he could take. There was some paracetamol, two left. So he wasn’t sure if he should take that now , or in a few hours when he’d no doubt be suffering way more. He’d just opted on putting the box in the pocket of his pyjamas instead.
Hell, maybe Chef would go pick some stuff up for him later…
He doubted it, honestly. But it didn’t matter, since he could handle it.
As he was just about to turn around and go flop himself on the couch, or something, a thought vaguely in the back of his mind made him think maybe he should check his temperature. Eh, wouldn’t hurt.
He sniffed as he looked down at the device, it looked old and he wasn’t sure if It’d even turn on.
Flipping it over he’d noticed the distinct lack of batteries.
Well, shit. Guess this meant a journey to the kitchen…
Could he be bothered to do that? Not really, but it was good in a way, he supposed. Then he’d be able to grab a drink that wasn’t alcoholic.
Hey, maybe this was just a hangover.
As he harshly coughed into his elbow, he quickly retracted that statement. Nope, not a hangover.
It was weirdly uncomfortable how aware of everything Chris was, like how he knew he was walking way too slow. And how everything felt way too fucked. But wasn’t aware enough to realize he’d left the bathroom light on. Oh, or shutting the cabinet door.
Eh, not too much damage done. Chef’d probably mention it later, it didn’t matter.
As he reached the kitchen he winced a bit. They’d been hanging out there yesterday, chatting with each other and watching some cooking show on the television while they tried to recreate it.
It hadn’t been quite cleaned yet, and he was purposely diverting eye-contact from the sink, because he was at the stage where he wasn’t too sure if he was going to throw up, and if that was the case, he was almost positive that the sight of that would be the thing that set him off.
Nevermind that , he came in here for two things only. Batteries, and death.
No, batteries and water. Unfortunately, dying wasn’t an option yet, despite how much he felt like he was about to.
Get the batteries, get the water and get the fuck to sleep. Simple enough.
As he scourged through the drawers looking for one of those stupid round batteries, he got annoyed. Why was it even missing? Surely it couldn’t have been that hard to get a new one from somewhere else.
He frowned at the missing screws. Honestly? How much effort did that have to have taken to open that damn thing. It was probably him who took the batteries, now he was thinking about it. Because yeah, unfortunately, that seemed like something he would do.
Thankful for some god unknown reason, there actually were batteries in there. Which was great, because he was two seconds away from shoving one of those turkey thermometers in his mouth.
But he’d got what he came for. So wich a quick step over towards the fridge, he victoriously grabbed himself a bottle of water.
And then?
In the same way the adrenaline suddenly wears off after you’ve run your laps in p.e, and the exhaustion you feel when you stop running, a similar feeling was being experienced.
Grimacing as he blinked a few times, he fumbled with the objects in his hands as he sat himself on the floor crossed-legged.
Was the couch only a few steps away? Yeah, but was he really going to risk walking in a straight line with his hands full and nothing to grab onto if he tripped? Fuck that.
So as he sat there, his nail dug into the thermometer, attempting to open the stupid plastic flap. His hands were a little more shaky now, he noticed. Not as steady as they’d been when he’d first woken up.
But he’d actually managed to get the two in, fumbling around a little more. He stared down at the screen, waiting for it to blink with a sign of life.
…
“Oh, come on man!” He sighed, glaring down at the stupid cheap piece of plastic.
His hands shook as he grabbed the water bottle two-handedly, attempting to get the dumb lid off. Accidentally squeezing the bottle in the process, getting the left side of his shirt wet. Amazing…
As he sipped it, he frowned at how even water tasted bad. There wasn’t any taste, just that stupid throbbing pain in the back of his throat.
God, why didn’t he just go back to bed?
He’d been defeated. Chris McLean had been defeated by a plastic fucking thermometer. Simply glaring down upsettingly as he let the device fall onto the white porcelain tiles.
As it clacked and span lightly he just stared at it, eyes drooping a little.
“Need a hand down there?”
Understandably startled, his head snapped upwards towards the voice. Jesus Christ , that’d scared him. He had scared him. “Chef?” He muttered cautiously, as if the mysterious person in his kitchen was somehow not Chef and just a very helpful kidnapper.
“Any reason you’re on the floor now instead of that bed you’re always passed out on?”
“ Rude” He quipped back, rolled his eyes, only to grimace a little at the pain that small action caused him. “ Maybe, I like it down here”. Staring at the ground angrily, his fingers closing around tighter on the water bottle.
“You like sitting on the kitchen floor, surrounded by trash with water splashed on your shirt?”
“... Maybe”
Chef just groaned, annoyed with the response. “Just look up, kid.”
So he did, Chef reaching a hand out to him. When he switched the partially wet water bottle to his other hand, Chris took it, it was clear to both of them that he wasn't having the greatest time right now when it came to standing up.
“You good?” The response that came from the question was a half-assed noise and shrug. “Right, just say no then, dickhead.”
Glancing at the plastic thing on the floor, he unhelpfully asked “What’s that?” As he went down to grab it anyway. Chris was a little thankful that Chef had grabbed it, because if he had to bend down, he was almost positive he wouldn’t get standing again.
And with the small broken device in his hand, Chef stared at it for a moment. “Any reason you need this?” But looking at Chris’s face dead-panningly staring at him, he backtracked. “Alright, nevermind.” A moment of silence, “So is it broken?”
“I tried to change the batteries- But yeah, It’s busted I think…” He frowned, sniffing slightly.
As Chef played around with the very-few buttons on the small thing, he finally flipped it over and held back a laugh.
“ What?” The other frowned, not liking how his partner was laughing, (Probably at him).
“Forgot something?” Looking confused, it took a minute for Chris to clock in what Chef was laughing at, but when he noticed he just groaned. “Wrong way, man.”
“Leave me alone, I’m dying.”
“Not without me, you’re not.” Chef rolled his eyes, similar to how Chris had done as he flipped the batteries. The small device lighting up almost immediately , causing the other to scoff a little.
“Dumbass.”
“Prick.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just keep this in your damn mouth.” Clicking it to make sure it was on, then shoving the device in before the other could even get a word of protest in. Making a noise of annoyance mixed with being slightly startled again, Chris begrudgingly accepted the vicious action.
“You ‘it m’ teeth” He mumbled, trying to speak around the object. Chef just snorted, reminding him what he said a moment ago.
Eventually, the device gave its tell-tale beeping sound, letting the degrading 30 seconds had in-deed finished.
As Chris moved his hand up to reach for it, Chef decided to take control and snatch it before he even had a chance to look.
“You’re so Rude!” He repeated a second time , this time snorting with laughter. Chef grinned back at him momentarily, before actually looking at the dumb numbers.
Which- To be honest, weren’t great . Not hospital level bad, but definitely not, ‘Go on an adventure though the house at four AM’ type of good.
“ Why?” Chef hummed.
“What? Like why am I sick?” He repeated back confused. If he had to guess it was probably to do with that shopping situation. He’d been trying to get something for his husband and some ugly hag was going for it and snatched it right from him.
Things got heated and he’s pretty sure he got spit on during the fight with how viscous she was yelling. That or stacking it and falling in some disgusting puddle was the cause of it. Chef simply stared at him, as if it was obvious.
“Why didn’t you come and get me , smartass.”
“It’s four AM.” He pointed.
“You’ve woken me up for less.” Well…
“Yeah but that was important.”
“ And you tryna do all this shit by yourself isn’t?” The retaliation was met with silence. “Listen, I don’t give a damn if you wake me up if you’ve got an actual reason. And you better not be telling me that waking me up last week because you wanted to watch a horror was important.”
“It was fun though.”
“That’s besides the point. Don’t play smart with me, boy.” He scoffed. “I’ll let it slide though, only because you’re actually sick.” The numbers came out to be 39.1 °C, so definitely a fever.
“Hey, what’d you mean actually? Would I ever lie to you?” He pouted, looking back to his husband.
“Yes.” He deadpanned.
“Well- Yeah, but not about being sick.” He sniffed, looking away frowning.
“I know, I know.” He hummed, “Now go lay on the couch before you throw up.”
“Fine, but not because you asked me to.” It was because he asked him to. Also, the idea of laying down sounded really appealing right now.
“Yeah, yeah.”
So as Chris ungracefully let himself fall onto the couch he peered his head behind the sofa, staring bleary-eyed at the other. He questioned him, muddled. “What’re you searching for?” At the way the other was currently raiding their kitchen in looks of something.
“I was searching to find you some common sense, but looks like I’ve used the last of it.” At Chris’s scoff, Chef continued. “What was the plan here? Take two expired paracetamol and think you’d magically be cured?”
“How did you-”
“You left the bathroom light on, also you’re not quiet, at all.”
“Sorr-”
“Shut up, rest now, talk later.”
“I Love you..”
“Love you too, dumbass.”