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Actually, it all starts with a mild stomachache. It’s not something that happens to Tyler too often; he just wakes up like this — curled into a ball on his hotel bed, with such a nasty feeling somewhere near his belly button. Of course, he just guesses he ate something bad yesterday (but then Tyler remembers he wasn’t hungry all day) and decides just to wait until he feels better. Anyway, they have enough time to get ready for the interview and the show afterward; Tyler is sure he can convince his probably upset stomach to stop playing these weird tricks on him.
Waiting isn’t helping.
When Tyler manages to pull himself out of the bed, he catches Josh eating Chinese food with a healthy appetite and almost winces in disgust. He’s not a fan of early breakfasts, and his stomach churns again, much stronger this time — Tyler feels like he might spew his insides, but swallows the urge to retch at the smell of the noodles.
Food-poisonings suck. Tyler is grateful it’s the last day of their intensive touring.
“What?” Josh asks, raising his eyebrow and still chewing his never-ending breakfast.
“What?” Tyler rubs his right side blankly; it seems like the pins of pain localize there, throbbing in his abdomen. Maybe he’s just strained his abs while climbing last night or something like that. Not a big deal.
“Bad mood?” Josh gives Tyler a concerned look like he can see right through his friend.
“Yeah,” Tyler lets out a faint chuckle, trying not to wrap his arms around his stomach to soothe the ache. “I’m gonna take a shower. Dude, stop staring at me like this.”
Josh shrugs, mumbling something like ‘just asking,’ but Tyler can barely hear him, heading to the bathroom and turning the hot water on; he craves to wash away the drowsiness. Unfortunately, fifteen minutes later he realizes that the shower isn’t helping at all.
***
A few hours later, during the interview Tyler fidgets on the black leather couch, fighting against the embarrassing desire to unbutton his too-tight pants, and even the waistband of his underwear puts a queasy pressure on his lower stomach. The girl-interviewer with her annoying questions irritates him, but Tyler plasters a politely-shy smile on his face and waves his hand on the camera. Josh obviously feels uncomfortable, sitting beside him, but Tyler doesn’t want to screw it all up. He tries very hard not to show that every movement just increases the pain, making him more and more nauseous as he shares his positive tour impressions.
Tyler can stand his sudden illness.
In the dressing room before the performance, Josh almost drives him into a corner, intending to find out what the hell is wrong.
“Dude, you look like a zombie,” he blurts out in all seriousness, squeezing the drumsticks in his palms.
“I’m fine,” Tyler assures, somehow avoiding his bandmate’s gaze. “Just tired. By the way, you look exhausted too.”
Ruffling his blue hair, Josh eyes him mistrustfully but doesn’t say anything.
***
Tyler almost forgets about his problem during the first half of the show; he works on convincing himself /and Josh/ he’s okay, but anyway, this abdominal pain is his companion now, eating him out of the inside.
Tyler’s cramping stomach is about to twist itself inside out along with Josh’s backflip off the piano. Rapping the lyrics, he constantly finds himself clutching his right throbbing side like his trembling hand has a magic power that can heal him. Tyler also thinks he has a fever, cold sweat dribbling down the back of his neck, soaking the collar of his t-shirt, and the queasy knot tightens over his guts, but he can bear it. He nods to the rhythm of Josh’s drums, faking the enthusiasm as good as he can (the lights are too bright anyway, fans won’t be able to notice anything).
Certainly, jumping tonight would be just a suicide.
And then Tyler climbs onto the speaker and does that damned jump. He even lands on his feet, which is great. Honestly, he isn’t surprised that his wobbly legs aren’t interested in holding him upright anymore, and Tyler falls, slamming his left side against the stage; it somehow makes his steady right-sided pain worse. He lies like a broken puppet for like five seconds and then stands up stubbornly, managing to croak out a stupid joke about the gravity into the microphone he’s still gripping with his numb fingers.
A worried Josh is going to kick his ass backstage. The last few songs of their set go in a haze, but Tyler is pretty sure he misses the bit, focusing on not to faint in front of the audience; the band ends the show without getting more injuries.
When Tyler steps into the backstage hallway that seems blindingly dark, he finally admits that he’s been feeling sick all day, and after the falling, he needs to puke. Luckily, the restroom’s door is right next to him, and Tyler yanks at the doorknob, but oh shit- it’s closed, but he literally can’t just swallow the bile down. It burns his tired throat, and he rushes to the dressing room, clamping his palm over his mouth, unsure if it will help him keep himself from throwing up right here.
But Tyler can’t run fast, and he’s forced to stop, trying not to choke on the contents of his roiling stomach.
“Tyler, whoa, are you okay?” of course, it’s Josh — Tyler feels familiar arms on his shoulders as his friend guides him down the hallway.
Tyler wordlessly shakes his head in response.
They almost knock someone from the crew off their feet, but they reach the dressing room right in time: the bout of pain sucker-punches Tyler’s right side again, and he vomits into the trash can as soon as he removes his hand off his lips.
“Lock the door,” he spits, hunching over the trash can; Tyler doesn’t want anyone to enter the room while he’s in this terrible state. He screws his eyes shut, hearing Josh’s screaming ‘give us some time!’ and the slight click of the door locking.
“What’s happening?”
Tyler ignores his friend’s question at first. Yeah, he’s vomited some bile, but bile isn’t blood, at least. Everything swims in front of Tyler’s eyes as he stops dry-heaving and finds the guts to look at his surroundings; then he curls into a fetal position on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest and breathing heavily.
“I’m gonna call the ambulance,” Josh informs, stepping closer to him.
“No,” Tyler moans in disagreement, even though the symptoms of his illness become clear.
“Tyler,” Josh balances on the barrier between sanity and hysteria. “What hurts?”
Tyler’s hand traces to that spot below his belly button which feels swollen and tight and doesn’t let him take the rest he deserves. It’s too bad to be just food poisoning, isn’t it?
“Roll onto your back,” Josh orders, kneeling next to Tyler and shaking his shoulder slightly.
Reluctantly, Tyler does as he told, but he just can’t lie still when Josh suddenly pulls his sweaty t-shirt up.
“What the fuck are you doing?!”
“Checking your appendix,” Josh shrugs, pushing his fingertips underneath the waistband of Tyler’s pants. He just presses at the pulsating spot on his abdomen and jerks his hand away sharply.
Tyler’s appendix doesn’t like this trick. The pain becomes stronger than before, Tyler swears he even sees the color of it — bright red, flashing like a sickening firework at the back of his closed bloodshot eyes. He lets out a short yelp — and oh God, his body hurts.
“Appendicitis,” Josh concludes.
“Josh, you can’t just diagnose me,” Tyler starts hesitantly, clutching his right side habitually.
“I can’t. Paramedics can,” Josh cuts him off, reaching for his backpack and taking his cellphone out of the pocket.
“We’re flying home tomorrow morning,” Tyler whines; he doesn’t want to spend his day off in the hospital, and what if all of this is just a false alarm?
“Do you want to get your appendix removed while we’re on the plane?!” dialing 911, Josh stares at his friend like he’s a psycho.
“Ha-ha,” Tyler replies darkly, huffing.
According to Josh’s answers to the phone operator (‘male, twenty-five-year-old, probably appendicitis, conscious’), he talks to the robot.
Tyler regrets he hasn’t taken any meds.
“The ambulance is gonna be there soon,” Josh shifts closer so Tyler can place his head onto his bandmate’s lap; he wants to pull his knees to his chest again, but guesses it wouldn’t be good since he has appendicitis. “That phone-woman said you have to lie on your back, and honestly, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do if you’re going to puke again.”
“I don’t feel like puking,” Tyler winces at the acidic taste in his mouth. “Do you think it’s gonna… burst?”
“Hopefully, no,” Josh shudders nervously.
They both almost jump when someone knocks at the door, but it’s still too early for paramedics.
“We’re fine!” Tyler yells angrily, gasping at the sharp ache in his lower stomach. He doesn’t want to bother anyone.
But Tyler’s secret outs itself when the ambulance arrives, and two guys put him onto the stretcher and get him down the stairs, out of the club, and on the street. He hears the sounds of the crowd (some fans are still waiting for the band) and the terrified voice of their tour manager but pretends he doesn’t feel embarrassed as they pass by.
“Calm down, he’s gonna be okay,” Josh’s words are addressed to the fans, but Tyler believes him, hoping the paramedics won’t drop him down onto the asphalt.
He’s definitely going to spend the night with the IV in his vein, shit. In the ambulance car, the nurse asks him about his probable allergic reactions, checks his medical history, and nods, preparing the syringe for the injection.
“Don’t worry, it’s a standard procedure, Mr. Joseph,” she says and sinks the needle into the crook of Tyler’s elbow.
He’s glad that Josh is allowed to sit beside the stretcher on the way to the hospital. Probably, there is some kind of tranquilizer or drug in that syringe, because Tyler suddenly feels like he has some important thing to say.
“Josh. You are my best friend, and I’m gonna be honest with you,” he licks his lips with his dry tongue, turning to his friend. “Have you always been so hot?”
“Yeah. Since my first Birthday,” Josh winks or maybe it is just a tic.
Tyler’s afraid that Josh doesn’t get him right while he’s drugged, and he would like to give Josh more compliments, but lying on the stretcher makes him pretty nauseous again. For some reason, the paramedic asks him if his abdomen still hurts, and Tyler glares at him, hissing ‘yes’, because what the hell-
“That’s good that you can still feel the pain,” the guy looks satisfied, writing something on the clipboard. “It means it’s not too late, and it doesn’t threaten you to get gangrenous appendicitis.”
Tyler wants to bang his head against the hard stretcher, and Josh squeezes his hand.
***
All the next hour in the hospital is probably the worst hour in Tyler’s life. After the registration, the surgeon pokes at Tyler’s bare stomach, making it even worse than Josh did — fucking McBurney’s point. Then, the nurse drags him to the CT scan room, then some people take his blood for the tests, asking him questions about the loss of appetite and throwing up episode, and then the verdict is-
“Appendectomy.”
“Knock me out already,” Tyler grumbles helplessly; he’s ready to pass out without the hint of anesthesia. But he’s certainly ready to say ‘goodbye’ to his sick appendix.
“Of course,” the surgeon nods, taking him too literally.
Josh is somewhere in the hallway, drinking the millionth plastic cup of coffee from the coffee machine. He’s lucky.
Then, Tyler shakes on the stretcher again, and the assistants call some medical codes as they maneuver him into the operating room. Out of the corner of his eye, Tyler only catches Josh, sitting on the folding chair and leaning his head against the wall.
“You were right,” Tyler mutters to him, unsure if his friend recognizes his words.
***
He wakes up with the stinging discomfort in his stomach again, and it’s like the closed circle, but this time it’s the ache of the weird emptiness. Tyler blinks, getting ready to see the nurse or the surgeon or St. Peter, but he only notices his friend, watching him concernedly.
“Morning,” Josh greets him. “Welcome back. How are you?”
“Uh. Alive, I guess,” Tyler frowns at the shrill beeping of a heart monitor beside his bed. He’s dizzy, thirsty, and that appendicitis pain is gone, but now there’s another kind of muffled pain that spreads across his lower stomach. His throat and eyes are dry, and Tyler hasn’t seen this room earlier — likely, it’s just the hospital ward.
“Do you remember anything?”
He remembers a plastic mask pressed against his face, the surgeon’s order ‘count to ten’ and then there was a huge black hole in his memory because Tyler got lucky and passed out at the count of ‘five’.
“Not sure. But the shaving was quite degrading,” he giggles; the side effect of general anesthesia, probably. “How did you get here?”
“The door wasn’t locked, and I was just worried,” Josh simply explains. “The surgeon said we arrived right in time to avoid the rupture of your appendix. It was hella inflamed.”
In Tyler’s opinion, Josh deserves a medal for saving his life.
“You’re the coolest guy I’ve ever known,” he blurts out; his tongue is still a heavy mess. “Can you call someone? I don’t think they will be pleased finding you here.”
“Well. Okay,” Josh rubs the silver ring in his nose. “But I’m gonna stay with you for as long as the nurse will let me.”
That’s actually the best news for the past two days, Tyler is definitely going to survive this upsetting appendix incident.
“Dude, you make me feel better,” he grins, gasping at the mild pain in stitches and grabbing his hand at the hospital gown. “Ouch.”
Josh is on his way to the door, but suddenly he turns to Tyler with a slightly strange facial expression.
“Tyler,” Josh pauses suavely. “Can you show me your scar? I mean, later.”
“Deal,” Tyler forces himself for a half-smile. “Later.”