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Morning light spilled in through the cracks of the blinds covering the window wells of the Spankoffski family’s basement. One of these strips of light shone directly into Richie’s eyes, waking him up in perhaps the most annoying way possible. He groaned and pulled his blanket over his head, sighing in relief when darkness enveloped him. He drifted from sleep to waking many times, trying to cling to those last few whispers of dreams that lingered.
Before, it was the light shining in his face that drew him from sleep. Now, it was something else. His stomach was queasy, like he was riding the Tilt-a-Whirl at Watcher World. His clothes were too tight, too warm. The elastic waistband of his pajama pants felt constricting over his nauseated stomach. His head was dizzy, his limbs fuzzy. His mouth tasted strange and dry. He shifted, hoping a change in position would banish the feeling.
It did not. In fact, it made it more intense. His mouth suddenly filled with saliva, a warning sign that woke him the rest of the way.
Richie scrambled out of the blanket, clasping both hands around his mouth as he stood, vision blurry from sleep. The world spun when he stood, vertigo aggravating the nausea. He stumbled over Ruth and Peter’s still-sleeping forms, placing a balancing hand on the wall as he lurched towards the bathroom.
The bathroom door was firmly closed, light shining beneath it. Fuck! Someone was in there already! Richie glanced at the stairs. He didn't think he could make it to the first floor bathroom. The movement of going up that flight of stairs would surely make him sick. And he really didn’t want to throw up all over the nice carpet the Spankoffskis put in. They wouldn’t be mad at him- of course not- but he would feel really bad.
He banged on the bathroom door, hoping he was conveying his desperation well enough for whoever was in there (Ted, presumably. He lived in the basement) to open up. The movement made his stomach flip and he swallowed down rising stomach acid, eyes watering.
“WHAT?” Ted shouted, voice muffled by the door.
Richie tried to talk, but he couldn’t do it without vomiting, so he just pounded on the door again.
“PETE, I’M GETTING READY FOR WORK! GO SHIT UPSTAIRS! STOP KNOCKING! …Ugh what the hell ?!”
There was a pause and a clatter of toiletries falling on the counter. The door swung open and Richie did not wait to explain himself, instead pushing Ted aside and diving onto the ground in front of the toilet. He pulled up the lid not a moment too soon. Hunched over the toilet, he made a sick noise in his throat before sour bile came out, splashing into the toilet.
“Uh, shit, I-” Ted stumbled for words, looking around in a panic, “I’ll go… get someone.”
Richie did not hear this, of course. He was too busy burping up acid and the chunky remains of last night’s dinner: the pizza he, Ruth, and Pete made from scratch. It did not taste as good coming out as it did going in. He spasmed and heaved with each new expulsion. Some of it came out his nose, stinging his sinuses.
Dazedly, he recognised someone kneeling next to him, and fingers combing his messy hair. The hands were cool against his burning forehead. He wanted to lean into the feeling, but his body forced him to heave. Nothing was coming out now, just foam, and then not even that.
He coughed and spat a few more times before his body gave him a break.
Richie sobbed out a groan, letting himself relax a little and trying to rest his head against the cool porcelain. Whoever was beside him stopped him from doing that and pulled him in instead, letting him collapse against their chest.
He tried to pull away, afraid he was getting vomit on them.
“Hey, it’s alright Rich,” the person said. Peter. It was Peter holding him.
He whined in protest, though nobody listened. He was too weak to get away.
“Wow,” Ruth’s voice came from the doorway. “That was the most I have ever seen you barf. And there was that time back in third grade when you got food poisoning and threw up all over Sara Zimmerman.”
“Not helping, Ruth,” Peter hissed through his teeth, continuing to comb through Richie’s hair.
Someone flushed the toilet.
“Uh, I’m running late for work,” Ted said, as though he ever cared about getting to work on time. A couple of things on the counter sounded like they were moved around. Ted turned back before leaving, “Feel better?”
Richie groaned incoherently.
Ted left, apparently satisfied with that answer.
Pete shifted, letting Richie sit back. He handed him a box of tissues. Richie gratefully took some and blew his nose.
“Can you tell my mom Richie’s sick?” Pete asked. Ruth nodded and saluted, taking off into the basement and up the stairs.
“I’m sorry,” Richie apologised. He coughed, another chunk of half-digested food landing in the tissue. The sensation was so awful he thought he might throw up again.
“Don’t worry about it,” Pete waved him off. He stood up, opening the cabinet beside the mirror and fishing through it, setting a few items on the counter. “It’s only fair. I’ve thrown up at your house twice. And once at your uncle’s house too.” He laughed nervously, “You’ve only got a few more to go before you break my record.”
“Ugh, don’t say that,” Richie slumped against his legs. “I don’ wanna throw up ever again.”
Pete nudged him away so he could kneel down again. He held a thermometer and some mouthwash.
He handed Richie the mouthwash, letting him get the gross taste out of his mouth. He felt too weak to stand, so spat it out into the toilet rather than the sink. His saliva was still thick, and the taste of bile stayed stubbornly in the back of his throat.
“I’m gonna check your temperature,” Pete said, leaning in and moving Richie’s hair out of his face. He placed the thermometer on his temple, pressing a button that beeped very loudly directly into Richie’s ear. He flinched. Pete noticed this and covered that ear for him, waiting for the second beep when the thermometer had the temperature. It was still loud when it beeped the second time, but a little muffled.
Pete turned it around, squinting at the screen as he brought it close to his face. “I should’ve put on my glasses,” he muttered.
Ruth and Peter’s mom came down just then, so he gave the thermometer to Ruth to read. She took it, letting out a whistle. “102.6,” she read it outloud.
“No wonder I feel like shit.”
Mrs. Spankoffski knelt down, “Oh sweetie, let’s get you some tylenol.”
Usually Richie was embarrassed by Mrs. Spankoffski’s propensity to call them all silly little pet-names, but he was okay with being babied when he was sick.
Pete helped him stand. He lurched to the side, dizzied by the sudden movement. Pete didn’t let him fall. They led him back to the pile of sleeping bags and blankets the three of them had set up in the rec room in the basement for their sleepover last night. As soon as he laid down, Mrs. Spankoffski was forcing pills and a glass of ginger ale in his hands. That was a weird quirk of Peter’s family: they drank ginger ale when sick instead of Pedialyte or tea with honey like Richie’s family did. Granted, ginger ale tasted a whole lot better than Pedialyte.
He popped the pills in his mouth and downed it with the soda. The cold carbonation felt good on his sore throat.
Ruth put a big bowl beside Richie. Another quirk of the Spankoffskis: they used a bowl instead of an office trash can to vomit in when sick. This was the same bowl they used for popcorn. Richie had not eaten popcorn at their house after finding that out. He didn’t care how much they washed it- he wasn't going to eat popcorn from the same bowl people barfed in.
“Should I call your parents to pick you up?” Mrs. Spankoffski asked.
Before Richie could answer, Ruth did, “They’re in Iowa for a work conference.”
“That’s why we had the sleepover,” Pete explained. “Daniel and Trevor are both at friends’ houses for the weekend. I didn’t want Richie to be home alone.”
“Should I call your uncle, then?” Mrs. Spankoffski asked.
“I can call him.” Richie reached for his phone. Ruth handed it to him. He clicked it on, his Spirited Away wallpaper greeting him as he typed in his passcode and clicked the contacts app, scrolling until he found his uncle.
The phone rang for a bit before Paul picked up, anxious even before hearing what Richie had to say, “Are you okay? Is everything all right? Shi- I mean Crap! That was the same thing twice, wasn’t it?”
Richie couldn’t help but smile. Uncle Paul wasn’t ever funny on purpose, but he was plenty hilarious on accident. He always insisted on not swearing around Richie or his brothers, as though they were little kids who didn’t know swear words. Okay, maybe Daniel still was, but it’s not like Danny ever really listened to what anyone else was saying anyway.
“I threw up.”
“Uh oh. Um, you’re at Pete’s house, right?”
“Mhhm.”
“Shi- shoot. Uh… I can leave on my lunch break, I think? I’m really sorry. Mr. Davidson’s been super strict ever since he got wasted at that company picnic and said some uh, private stuff about his relationship with his wife. I think he's trying to stay on HR's good side. Will you be okay until noon?”
Richie looked up at the worried faces of his friends and Mrs. Spankoffski. They would take care of him just fine. “Yes. I’ll be okay.”
---- ‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅ ----
The three teens were crowded onto Pete’s bed, under piles of blankets and pillows. Pete and Richie’s clothes had been covered in vomit (something which Richie apologised profusely for), so Pete had changed into different clothes and Richie was borrowing Pete’s prized Spiderman pajamas, which Pete was a little too big for nowadays but that fit Richie perfectly.
Pete and Ruth snuggled up on either side of Richie, despite him protesting that they would get sick too. Ruth justified it by claiming she had an immune system “tougher than steel” (not true), while Peter said he didn't care if he got sick (most likely true but incredibly irresponsible).
“Since you’re feeling sick, you get to choose a movie to watch, and we won’t even complain,” Pete promised, handing the remote to Richie. This was one of their rules. You couldn’t criticise the ill person’s choice of movie. When Ruth wanted to watch Star Wars, they had to, And when Pete insisted they watch Fellowship of the Ring (extended edition, of course), they couldn’t gripe about how long it was.
Richie thought for a while about what he wanted to watch. As a little kid, he watched Ponyo religiously when sick. That was a good one. He searched for it and found it on one of the streaming services the Spankoffskis paid for. It was the dubbed version, but that was probably better anyways. Ruth couldn’t focus on subtitles for the life of her, and Richie felt the sub and dub were equally good. He settled back, pulling the larger blankets over his shivering body as the movie began to play.
“Oh, Ponyo! I remember this! I watched it in theatres when it came out!” Ruth, who was physically incapable of not talking during movies, said.
“Lucky,” Richie muttered. “I didn’t get it until it was on DVD.”
“I haven't seen it,” Pete said.
“You haven’t seen it?!” Ruth and Richie exclaimed at the same time.
“I’ve only seen Spirited Away and Tales of Earthsea.”
“When I feel better we are scheduling a Ghibli marathon,” Richie declared. “We can start on Howl’s Moving Castle. That’s a classic.”
“Yeah!” Ruth chimed in. “And Howl is sooo hot. I would smash him, no questions asked.”
“Same.”
Peter gave them a disapproving glare.
“Look him up, you’ll see,” Ruth insisted.
Pete sighed and grabbed his phone. After staring at a picture of Howl for a moment, he said, “I can see it. Like, I’m not into guys but I get it. It’s not as crazy as some of the other characters you guys have liked.”
“Like Disney’s Robin Hood,” Ruth sighed dreamily.
“The Green Giant,” Richie added.
“FROM THE FUCKING CORN COMMERCIALS???” Pete leaned over, eyes wide. They ignored him, continuing to list off all the weird crushes they had on characters over the years. Ruth and Richie were nothing if not oversharers.
“Jack Skellington.”
“Birdo.”
“BIRDO?! FROM MARIO!?”
“Diego from Ice Age. And Gill from Finding Nemo.”
“I forgot about him! Oh, and I had the biggest crush on Lightning McQueen.”
“Really?” Ruth said, “I would’ve pegged you for a Chick Hicks kind of guy.”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!”
“CAN WE PLEASE JUST WATCH THIS MOVIE WITHOUT ARGUING ABOUT WHICH CAR FROM DISNEY PIXAR’S CARS YOU WANT TO FUCK? PLEASE AND THANK YOU? I’M LITERALLY BEGGING YOU?”
The two of them shut up (for now) and watched the movie.
Richie still felt sick. His muscles were hurting now, and though he was not nauseous enough to throw up, he was still nauseous. Plus his head had begun to hurt.
He closed his eyes, shielding them from the light of the TV. He had seen this movie enough times that he had it memorised. He could picture how the screen looked just from the dialogue and music.
He sunk into the cozy warmth of the bed, cuddling further into Ruth. She giggled and shifted, letting him rest his head in the crook of her neck. Behind him, Pete threw an arm over both of them, really squishing Richie between the two of them. Usually Richie wasn't a big fan of being hugged, but at times like this, it made him feel safe, protected.
Ruth's breathing settled into a slow, even tempo. After a few minutes, she began to snore softly, a sound that would've been annoying coming from anyone else but was endearing from her.
Pete huffed a warm laugh which tickled Richie's neck. “She's sleeping already,” he whispered.
Richie nodded, keeping the motion small so he didn't wake Ruth.
Peter shifted behind him, putting something on his bedside table with a clack. It sounded like his glasses. He leaned back in. “I think I might sleep too.”
That sounded like a good idea. In fact, surrounded by blankets and the warmth of his friends, it sounded irresistible. Sleep called to him, a sweet siren's song with the promise of reprieve from sickness. Richie did not fight it as he drifted off.
----‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅----
Paul parked the car in the Spankoffskis’ driveway, scrambling with the supplies he put in the passenger seat after making a quick trip to the store to buy everything one needs when taking care of a sick child. Trashbags (he didn't want vomit in his car), tylenol, gatorade, plain crackers, Charlotte's desk humidifier which she let him borrow along with some essential oils from that scammy pyramid scheme business she sold for, tissues, vapo rub, and an assorted pack of popsicles.
He'd never actually had to take care of a sick kid before, so he'd spent a long time searching through parenting blogs for advice. He'd also talked to Bill, he assured him that Richie would be easy to take care of, considering he was sixteen years old. Before he left, he sent a text to his sister asking what Richie usually ate when sick. He hadn't expected her to text back so quickly, since she was busy with the conference. She sent back a list of foods, most of which Paul didn't actually know how to make.
Satisfied that he had everything in order, he got out of the car, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste. He followed the sidewalk to the Spankoffskis’ front door. He had been here a few times to pick up Richie or his friends when his parents were too busy to, though he usually waited in the car, parked across the street somewhere. Ted lived there too, and he did not like seeing Ted more than he had to.
He was in luck today, because Ted was at work. He had come in late, as usual, but he at least was kind enough to let Paul know his nephew was sick. Richie had already called him by then, but it was nice to be reminded that Ted sometimes cared about people other than himself.
The Spankoffskis’ had one of those camera doorbells. They made Paul uncomfortable. He didn’t like the idea of being filmed. Call him old fashioned, but he thought it was better not to film people as they took a few moments to muster the courage to knock (It did not ever occur to him that not everyone has to stand outside for a few minutes anxiously scripting what they will say when the door opens). He rang the bell, which made a loud buzzing sound. After a second or two, Mrs. Spankoffski opened the door, smiling kindly.
“Paul Mathews, right?” She held out her hand to shake. He nodded, taking her hand and giving it a single, firm shake. He hadn’t messed up this interaction so far! “Come in.” She stepped aside to let him in.
The living room was large, with high ceilings. The walls were painted a soft and welcoming marigold. It was a nice house. Not the way he expected it to look. Though he wasn’t honestly sure what he expected. Like a trash heap? Ted sometimes gave off the vibes of a person who had been raised in a trash heap.
“Where’s Richie?” Paul asked, noticing that the living room was empty.
“He’s in Pete’s room,” Mrs. Spankoffski beckoned him up the stairs. He followed. As they ascended, he glanced at the rows of family photos lining the walls of the stairway. Vacations, beach days, fishing, first days of school. He saw younger versions of Ruth and Richie beside Pete in a few of them, wearing Halloween costumes in this one, waving from a window in a treehouse in that one.
Once they reached the top of the stairs, they came to a door, decorated with stickers and posters. Mrs. Spankoffski softly knocked before opening it. Paul peaked around her to see a cluttered room with all sorts of geeky posters and paraphernalia. The kid even had an honest to god microscope on his desk.
In the bed, cozied up under a large Mario comforter, were Ruth, Richie, and Pete. Pete was awake, sitting up and playing on a Nintendo switch. The other two were fast asleep, with Ruth snoring softly, and Richie so covered by blankets the only thing visible was his hair.
“They’re sleeping,” Pete whispered, gesturing to his friends beside him.
The two adults nodded silently. They didn't want to wake either of them. Richie certainly needed some rest if he wanted to heal. Ruth didn't need the sleep or anything, but waking her was a bad idea. Her first instinct upon startling was always to bite, and none of them were particularly fond of the idea of being bitten by Ruth right now.
Pete scooted away from his friends, ruffling Richie’s hair before leaving the bed. This gave Paul room to get Richie. Richie often had issues falling asleep, but once he was, he would not wake up. He had slept through fire alarms, thunderstorms, even the time he and Trevor's bunk bed broke. So Paul doubted being picked up would wake him now.
“I packed up his stuff,” Pete held out Richie’s backpack, which was surprisingly light. He was at Pete’s house so often, he probably kept some essentials there.
“Thanks,” Paul slung the backpack on one shoulder and then moved the comforter. He picked up Richie. The teenager wasn't very heavy. While Pete had already hit his growth spurt and now towered over almost everyone at school, Richie had yet to do much growing. He was only an inch taller than Ruth (a fact he boasted about constantly since the day they compared heights). That made it a lot easier for Paul to carry him.
He slowly made his way downstairs and out the door, thanking the Spankoffskis for taking such good care of Richie.
----‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅----
Richie woke up in a different place than he fell asleep. This was usually cause for alarm. Had he been kidnapped? Did he start sleepwalking? Had he somehow shifted into an alternate reality? Did this mean the multiverse exists!?
The confusion wore off quickly when he realised he was lying on Uncle Paul's couch, wrapped in what appeared to be every blanket and most of the towels Paul owned.
He pushed them off, feeling a little overheated despite the fever.
“Oh sorry,” Paul's voice sounded from the hall. Richie turned to see him. “You were shivering so I gave you some blankets.”
“‘sa lot of blankets,” Richie murmured.
Paul came into the living room, carrying a bottle of gatorade. “I talked with your mom over the phone while you were sleeping. She tried to reschedule her flight back for tomorrow but there wasn’t anything she could do. She’ll be back on Thursday.” Paul handed him the drink, and Richie sat up so he could have it without spilling all over himself.
In addition to the fever and the nausea, Richie was now beginning to develop a sore throat and a cough. He had hoped whatever he was sick with would stick to the gastrointestinal issues and not become respiratory, but no such luck. Richie hated respiratory illnesses more than anything, because they tended to trigger his asthma or worse, progress into pneumonia.
“Uncle Paul, do you have any cough medicine?”
“I think so? Let me check.”
Paul searched around in the bathroom, trying to remember where he put the cough medication when he used it last. Paul seldom got sick, and he could not for the life of him recall when he had last needed cough medicine. He found it eventually, hidden behind a few bottles of Windex which he bought a bunch of last year because they were on sale. He didn’t even use Windex that much but it was three for the price of one so he couldn’t not get it. What if he needed it some day?
He sat back up, hitting his head on the bottom of the bathroom counter. Rubbing the spot he hit, he cursed, squinting down at the tiny writing on the bottle. The cap with which to measure out the medicine was lost, and the medication itself had expired four years ago. It was probably still good to drink, just less potent.
Paul made his way to the kitchen to find a glass to put some medicine in. He couldn’t find any directions telling him how much he needed to measure out, but the labelling was very faded so he was sure it had, at one point, been on there. Oh well, he could eyeball it.
He took down a cat mug Melissa had given him at a work Christmas party several years ago. He personally didn’t like cats, but Richie did, so this mug was Richie’s designated mug whenever he visited. He uncapped the cough syrup, smelling it. He wasn’t sure if cough syrup was meant to smell strange when it goes bad but he didn’t notice any unusual scents. He poured some into the mug, figuring it looked like a good amount.
He came back out to the living room and gave the mug to Richie. Richie gave Paul and the mug an odd look but ultimately drank it, making a face at the strong artificial cherry taste. That was one of his least favourite flavours. He gave the mug back and settled back down, taking out his phone to read.
Paul washed the mug in the kitchen sink and began to get to work making matzo ball soup. He’d never actually made it before, but it was apparently one of the only things Richie would eat when ill, so he decided to give it a shot. On the way back to his apartment, he stopped at the store again to buy the ingredients, leaving Richie to sleep in the car.
He looked at the recipe his sister, Naomi, had sent. She apparently made a lot of changes to the recipe because Richie had issues with the textures of foods and absolutely refused to eat onion or celery. Paul could understand that. He himself didn’t eat gummy candies or tofu for the same reason.
He let the chicken, carrots, and garlic fry in vegetable oil for a bit before dumping them into a pot of chicken broth with dill. As he let that simmer, he mixed matzo meal with egg, oil, water, and baking soda.
Wait, shit, that was supposed to be baking powder. Fuck. Oh well, it probably wouldn't make too big a difference?
He put the mixture in the fridge and headed back out to the living room to wait for the soup to be done simmering.
Richie slept on the couch, his phone having fallen from his hand and onto the blankets. Paul took the phone and placed it on the coffee table, not wanting Richie to accidentally knock it to the floor in his sleep. Then Paul settled into the rocking chair Bill gave him a couple of years ago. He had noticed Paul tended to get fidgety at work and liked to spin around in his office chair while he thought. Bill needed to get rid of the rocking chair anyway, having not used it since Alice was a baby. So now Paul had an awesome rocking chair. It even had a cute little duck pattern on the cushions.
He rocked the chair gently back and forth as he opened his phone, looking at the latest news articles from the Hatchetfield Gazette. Predictably, there wasn't much. That creepy Christian summer camp was starting in a week, Watcher World opened for the season, Pizza Pete’s had another rat infestation. Oh! An article about Peanuts! He clicked on that one, enjoying the burst of dopamine he got from looking at the adorable photos of the little squirrel in his newly renovated squirrel mansion.
This was a great article. He sent the link to Charlotte, sure she would enjoy it. Before he could look at any more news articles about Peanuts, Richie started to shift on the couch, mumbling incoherently. Paul studied him, trying to gauge whether he was just sleep-talking, or was waking up.
----‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅----
It was beginning to become too hot. Richie weakly kicked his blankets away. The cool air from the lack of blankets felt nice, but he was still too overheated.
He felt… strange. Something was buzzing under his skin, and in his ears too. It felt a little nice, but also a bit scary because he was certain his skin wasn't supposed to buzz.
He opened his eyes. Okay, things definitely weren't supposed to look like that. His vision was a little blurry, and he couldn't seem to tell how far away the coffee table and TV were. One moment they seemed close enough to touch, the next it was as if they were on the far end of a long hallway.
“What the fuck?” He mumbled, trying to sit up a little, dizzier than he had ever felt before. And that was saying something because Max once trapped him on the neighbourhood park's beat-up old merry-go-round and spun him so fast he vomited and couldn't walk without falling for half an hour.
“Are you alright?” Paul's voice cut through the buzzing, muffled like he was underwater. He turned to where he was pretty sure the voice came from and saw Paul leaning over the couch, wringing his hands with a worried expression on his face.
“I feel…” It took Richie a moment to come up with the right word, “bad.”
“Um… how bad?”
“Very?”
“Okay. Okay. Okay,” see, Paul said that but he didn't look it. “What kind of bad is it?”
“I don't know, everything looks weird? And my skin is buzzing. Like bees.”
Paul nodded, but his eyes were wide with anxiety.
“I'm gonna… uh, call your mom?” Paul held up his phone, then walked to the hallway.
----‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅----
Shit shit shit shit shit
This was bad. Like really bad. Naomi and Isaac were never going to trust him with any of their kids ever again.
He opened his phone, clicking on contacts and pressing on Naomi's name. He put the phone to his ear, chewing on his fingernails while he listened to it ring.
Finally, Naomi picked up the phone. “Hello? Is everything okay over there?”
“Does Richie happen to have an allergy to cough medicine?”
Even though Naomi was miles away in Iowa, Paul could feel her glare like she was right in front of him. He'd gotten a lot of that look throughout his life, being the annoying younger brother and all. “ What did you do?” Her words came out dripping with acid. Oh no, he was in such big trouble.
“I gave him cough medicine?” He said it like it was a question. “And I don’t know, he said he feels bad and things look weird and his skin is ‘buzzing’?”
There was a pause before Naomi spoke again. “How much did you give him?”
“I don’t- the measuring cap was gone so I put some in a mug? The bottle didn't say how much so I just guessed?”
“Paul. Are you a fucking dumbass?”
“I don't know!? Probably!”
“Let me talk to him! Right now!”
“Okay,” Paul headed back to the living room. Richie was looking around as though seeing the world for the first time, studying the texture of the blanket and the shine of the lights up above.
“Your mom wants to talk to you,” Paul held the phone out. Richie took it, looking confused for a second before placing it to his ear.
“Hi Mama,” he slurred a little, eyes half-closed. “Oh, I'm fine… I felt bad at first but I'm okay now. It's like being underwater but not!” Richie giggled, as though he had made some hilarious joke. “We should make everything an aquarium…”
Paul could hear Naomi on the other end of the line trying to talk, but Richie just kept interrupting, listing different kinds of fish they could get for their hypothetical aquarium. He didn't know that many fish, and he ended up listing lobsters thrice.
Eventually, Naomi was able to get a word in. Paul couldn't make it out, but it sounded like a question.
Richie answered, “No, I don't feel nauseous anymore… Yes, it's really hot in here… No… mhhm… okay, I'll give it back,” Richie tried to hand the phone back to Paul, though it was obvious he was having depth perception issues because he accidentally hit Paul with it. Luckily it didn't hurt.
“Hey,” Paul brought the phone back up.
“I know some of the symptoms of having too much cough syrup. He might start vomiting at some point-”
“I have a trashcan right by him.”
“-and his body temperature could rise. Check with a thermometer every once in a while. Also get washcloths wet and put them on his forehead and the back of his neck to cool him down. Get him some ice water. And if his clothes are too warm, have him change into something else.”
“Alright, I think I can do that,” Paul had taken out a notepad and pen to write down Naomi's instructions. “Should we call poison control or something?”
“Everything online says to, but it also looks like there isn't much they can do. Just take him to St. Damien’s if his fever gets too high or he starts to get worse. Depending on how much medicine you gave him, he should be okay in one to eight hours.”
“One to eight ?!”
“Listen, you really fucked up, but I doubt you fucked up bad enough to give him so much he would be high for eight hours. You'd have noticed that was obviously too much. He sounded pretty coherent and he said he isn't hallucinating, just blurry vision.”
“Okay. I promise I'll keep an eye on him.”
“You better! Ugh, I cannot believe you just put cough syrup in a mug. What kind of idiot… you probably would've been safer giving my child drugs off the street, Paul! Never letting you take care of a sick kid ever again!”
“That's fair. You sound… calmer than you did before? You’re sure he’ll be okay?”
Naomi sighed, “Don't tell anyone, but back in highschool me and my friends tried getting high on cough syrup a couple times. We didn't like it and we switched to smoking pot. Richie will be okay, trust me, I can tell. You only gave him just on the edge of too much.”
“I feel awful, Naomi. I really didn’t mean to-”
“I know. Doesn't mean I'm not fucking pissed, but I get it. Parenting means messing up. Shit, I once dropped Trevor! I thought I was the world's worst mom. These things happen. Just know I'm never trusting you to distribute medicine to my children ever again.”
“Noted.”
“Alright, I gotta go. Take care of Richie, and don't be a dumbass! Bye!”
“Bye bye.” Paul hung up the phone and set it on the coffee table, grabbing the thermometer to measure Richie's temperature.
“Are you in trouble?” Richie asked.
“A little bit. Your mom isn't too happy with me right now,” he swiped the thermometer over Richie’s temple.
“But I'm happy with you.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, you always agree to take care of me even though you aren't very good at it.”
Paul snorted at the backhanded compliment. Richie was overly honest at the best of times, but high on cough medicine, he was just saying whatever he wanted to, and that included the truths that people would usually hide behind white lies.
“Also you watch anime with me even though you don’t like anime,” Richie added.
“Well, it's not like you're asking me to watch a musical,” Paul checked the temperature on the thermometer. He was a little feverish, but within normal range.
Then, his phone alarm sounded. Shit! The soup!
“Uh, stay here,” Paul stood. That sounded stupid. Stay here? What, did he think Richie was going to run away? He internally berated himself, walking into the kitchen and pulling the matzo ball dough from the fridge.
He read over the directions in the recipe again, then began scooping balls of dough out with an ice cream scoop and plopping them into the soup. Once all the dough was used, he re-covered the pot and paced the kitchen as he waited for the food to finish.
After the exact amount of time the recipe called for passed, Paul checked on the soup. It looked absolutely nothing like the picture and the matzo balls had disintegrated greatly, covering the top of the soup in a slimy spongy layer. It was the worst thing Paul had ever cooked.
Despite this, he scooped some into a large bowl, bringing it out for Richie. Maybe he wouldn’t notice how terrible the soup was? He was pretty out of it.
Richie looked up when he came in, perking up at the smell of the soup. At least it smelled good. Paul wasn’t sure what he would do if he’d burned it or something. Can you burn a soup?
He handed Richie the bowl and the spoon, being very careful to accommodate for his temporarily bad depth perception. Richie tried to dip the utensil in the bowl, but it took several tries before he got it into the bowl and not just whack the side. He spooned the soup into his mouth. As soon as the flavour hit him, he made a face.
Paul wrung his hands nearby, nervously waiting to see if he had made it correctly. “How is it?”
“Very bad,” Richie answered, placing the spoon down in the bowl. Paul winced, he thought as much.
“I’ll get you something else. Sorry about that,” Paul took the soup. He just knew that was a disaster from the moment he looked up the recipe. He wasn’t an awful cook, but he wasn’t a great one either, and the stress of feeding someone else combined with making a new recipe for the first time had tripped him up.
He discarded the bowl of soup and poured chicken broth into a mug instead, microwaving it for a bit and then delivering it to Richie along with a box of saltines. Richie gladly accepted them and ate his fill (which wasn’t much) before drifting off to sleep again.
Now that Richie had eaten and was resting, Paul sat back in the rocking chair, letting the motion shake the nerves from his limbs. Today was a mess, but he hadn’t gotten Richie hospitalised yet at the very least, so he was doing better than he could have?
Oh god, he was not cut out for taking care of kids, which was awful because he was basically everyone’s go-to babysitter. He was pretty sure Alice only liked him because she could tell him Bill let her eat extra dessert after dinner and he just believed her for years without even thinking to ask Bill if what she said was true.
Paul’s eyes slid back over to Richie, who had buried himself beneath the blankets and was sleeping peacefully. Yeah, Paul was fine, he could do this. It was only a few days more before Naomi could make it home. He was fine! Totally and completely fine!
Inwardly, he wondered if he should hire a babysitter. Like, an actual one who took care of kids instead of just believing their lies and tricks so they could get extra dessert. Children were sneaky like that, and Paul was too trusting in their innocent faces. He would need someone who was kind but firm. He’d heard that Grace Chasity was taking babysitting jobs, and Bill said she was a good kid. Maybe he’d give her a call.