Chapter Text
“Yamcha, please go to a doctor!”
The all too loud shout put a sharp pain in his already aching head. Like a knife twisting in one ear and out the other, carving out his skull like an off-season jack-o’-lantern.
Yamcha slumped against the toilet, stomach muscles clenched hard. His legs shook a little, as if they were scared he would force them to carry him again.
“I’m… fine…” Yamcha replied, although he could hear the slight drag in his voice, as though he was speaking in slow motion.
“No, you’re not.” Puar hovered by his shoulder, whiskers flexing at the foul scent eroding their apartment's sole bathroom.
He jerked the handle, flushing the vile contents from the lavatory before settling himself on the tiles beside his friend.
His little paws touched the man’s arm and his frown deepened. “You’re warmer than yesterday.”
“I did just puke my guts out…” Yamcha babbled, using the much needed reprieve to spit sour bile from his mouth.
“Yamcha…” Puar murmured. “Please….”
The plaintive note in his voice made Yamcha hold off on any more tasteless jokes.
Puar was worried. He had been ever since Yamcha woke up a fortnight ago to harsh abdominal pains and vomiting. A flu, they had agreed. Nothing harmful they had to be concerned about.
Some days, Yamcha was perfectly fine, great even. But lately…
Yamcha took a deep breath as a pressure began to build in between the base of his spine and his gut. He hugged his abdomen, head thumping on the toilet seat.
“You’re really scaring me. There’s no way stomach flu should last this long! And you don’t smell like yourself!”
“What did I tell you about smelling me?” Yamcha rolled his head, cheek rested against white porcelain, all at once feeling heavy.
“I’m serious! You haven’t been yourself lately! You’re tired all the time, you can’t eat, you-you fainted yesterday! This isn’t normal, Yamcha!”
Yamcha sighed. He looked towards the bathrooms ajar door, gaze resting there without really looking. He hated not being able to do anything. Hated being like this.
He hated making Puar worry too.
He sniffled, folding his arms on the toilet seat and pressing his forehead against them. Something trickled warmly down his cheeks, his shoulders began to shake.
“Yamcha, are you..? W-why are you crying?”
“I don’t know…” He sobbed brokenly.
Puar made a noise somewhere behind him, then he felt his little stubs touch his back.
“This is serious! Something’s really wrong with you!”
The feline soared out of the bathroom, the jangling of metal sounding in the room over before he returned with keys.
“I can drive you to the hospital. They’ll know what to do!”
“No… hospital…” Yamcha whimpered, hunching more, like he was trying to shrink away into nothing.
“Don’t fight me on this!” Puar pulled at his arm, attempting to drag him from the room.
But Yamcha stubbornly remained where he was, going as far as to wrench his arm out of the cat’s paws.
“Please Yamcha, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“It’s not life threatening,” Yamcha sniffed, wiping his nose with his forearm. “It’s just… a flu… pretty sure…”
It couldn’t be anything life threatening, he was sure. Puar was one to overreact, always. He was right about one thing though. This was taking a little too long to sort itself out.
Maybe Yamcha should get a blood test? The harmless results would be the best way to alleviate Puar’s mounting anxiety.
It took him sometime before he realised Puar was speaking to him. He didn’t catch the words, but the tone was a scolding one.
Yamcha breathed deeply, then with what strength he had left pushed himself up to lean against the cabinet by the sink. His head thudded against it, making him wince, but otherwise he had no complaints.
“Puar…” he swallowed dryly, watching the wall across from him. “Can you get me some water?”
“Don’t change the subject!”
Yamcha grimaced, rolling his head to one side, regretting it as the room spun. “Please… I really need it…” he whispered, struggling to keep his eyes open long enough to regard the other.
Puar hesitated, but did as he was told. He was gone for a moment, then present with a plastic bottle.
Yamcha sculled it greedily while Puar fidgeted next to him. He finished it with a relieved gasp, placing the item beside himself. He took the time to breathe, feeling sleep beginning to threaten him.
His gaze flicked toward Puar, watching how nervously he fiddled with his paws.
Yamcha cracked a small smile.
“I’ll make an appointment tomorrow, if it’s still bad… promise…” he breathed, head bumping back against the cabinet.
“Just… just give me a minute…”
———————-———————-——————
Several hours passed. The sun was in a different position outside. Even with a few more hours of sleep, he still felt sickly nauseous.
His mind was set at ease, however, by the lovely thick comforter over him. Rarely did he sleep alone, his shapeshifting friend always there with him. However, Yamcha had demanded he keep away, lest he catch whatever sickness befell him.
He could tell this disheartened the feline, but he acquiesced.
Now Yamcha was yearning for company. He didn’t know why. He’d never felt so needy in his life.
There was a voice outside his door, someone speaking. “It’s only a little while. I have to get groceries. Please, I don’t want him to be alone. He hit his head on the counter earlier.”
Puar probably thought he was far enough that Yamcha couldn’t hear him. But his voice was high and loud.
It didn’t bother him. Yamcha had long grown accustomed to his friend’s excitable nature. It helped that Puar’s enthusiasm encouraged him to no end.
He was a good little cat…
Yamcha muttered something unintelligibly, not completely sure what or if he was trying to say something.
He heard the next room go quiet, then a nervous, “No, no! He’s okay! He’s just having an off day.”
That was funny. Puar so scared for him, but making sure no one else was concerned. That was his best friend alright. Never wanting anyone in a state of fear or panic.
He shuffled, straining to lay on his side and pulled the comforter over his head. The dim orange lights filtering in through the blinds were too much for his sensitive eyes.
Beneath the familiar fabric, enjoying the pleasant warmth of his bed, it wasn’t long before he drifted back to welcome slumber.
————————————————————
Whoever Puar had called was gone when Yamcha had woken up.
A loud, deep yawn trailed passed his lips as he sat up.
He glanced at the shutters, taking note of the steadily fading light. He must have only been out for an hour or two.
Another yawn, this time his hand rested against his belly, absently checking for any pain that may still linger there.
He paused mid yawn, swallowing it. He blinked, bringing his other hand down upon his stomach.
Something pushed back, resistance there in the form of a lump.
The rustle of blankets sounded as they were unceremoniously thrown back. Yamcha stood, feeling the area more fervently.
It wasn’t his imagination. Something big sat within him. Feeling it, he inferred its size to be roughly the same as a baseball. It felt firm, yet yielding somewhat, having an odd squishiness to it.
His breath caught in his throat and he stood in a stupor, frozen in place.
That… shouldn’t be there…
Was this the cause of his sickness?
Had the thing finally swelled enough for him to notice it, fearless with the knowledge that he had left it too late to fix?
Yamcha’s chest burned from holding his breath, his body screaming at him to just breathe, but he couldn’t.
The air was ice, and it had frozen him completely.
“P-P…” he choked on his own voice.
He shook his head, forcing his windpipe to unlock. He’d died twice in his lifetime, damn it. He could handle something like this.
“Puar… phone! Now!”