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Your head pounded during rehearsal. It's just a headache; it will pass.
You sipped from your water bottle, downing some Advil.
You glanced at the clock ticking on the wall. Just push through another hour. Just another hour and I can eat something.
The band had rehearsals nearly every day for a few hours or until the sound sounded satisfying, then free to spend the rest of the day as they pleased.
You struggled to eat the food you brought back from a nearby cafe, but forced a sandwich down. You lay in your cheap hotel bed for the rest of the day, reading, listening to your Walkman, anything to distract you from the growing pain in your head. Glam came and went, sometimes staying to write or doodle.
You were always curious about what he was writing or drawing, but respected his privacy; if he wanted to show you, he would. You understood his journal is his only true privacy from your shared room. Sometimes he would show you his drawings of graphics of the band title or album covers, a silly doodle of Chive, or something he saw outside, like a bird or building, which you greatly admired and appreciated every peek he shared.
Your room was quiet, which you both found comfort in. Speaking to Glam made you a little nervous sometimes, worried you'd embarrass yourself. It was hard sharing a room with your crush, but still better than the other options.
A pungent stench seeped in through the air vent, a familiar scent that you had grown somewhat accustomed to, now made your head worse. Glam seemed to notice too, and abruptly stopped writing and cracked open the window. While Glam didn't mind when Chive smoked near him, he was opposed to his entire room smelling like weed.
As the sun set, you curled onto your side and closed your eyes, your head not improving, hoping to turn in early.
"Y/n, are you alright?" Glam's soft voice rang in your ears. Glam wasn't very good at reading the room but had a knack for detail. The blinds almost rotated closed, and the lack of your use of the single light bulb above became noticeable with the sun setting.
"Yeah, I just get these headaches; they usually pass." You focused on speaking normally. You were good at masking when you needed to; you had practice over the years.
"Oh, are they bad?"
You turned on your back and sighed.
"Sometimes,"
"What's it like when they're bad?" Concern laced his voice along with curiosity.
"Like death would be better, but those ones don't happen often." You turned your head and attempted to give a reassuring smile. You could tell him about auras, the sensitivities, vertigo, or apasia, those horrible nausea-filled nights, but this answer seemed simpler. This pain should pass if I just sleep.
Your smile or words didn't reassure Glam.
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
"No, thanks though, I'll just sleep it off, don't worry about me. Good night Glam,"
"Good night,"
You did not sleep it off.
4:32 am.
Pain shot through your head, and you felt like the world was spinning with your eyes closed. You felt hot, and your stomach felt queasy. You slowly sat up and sat hunched on the side of the bed, afraid to move any more; the trash can was too far, and the toilet was even further. I can't do it. You wouldn't make it. You wonder if your head would burst, and death would be a sweet release.
You lifted your head to look at Glam's sleeping form across from you. Your eyes adjusted to the darkness, the streetlight from the window acting as a nightlight. He looked peaceful. You feel bad for waking him, but you would feel worse throwing up on the floor.
"Glam.." You groaned. No response. You took a few more breaths through your mouth before you mustered up enough will to try again. Your head throbbed, like bands of tight rubber bands were squeezing around your brain, and your sickness feeling continued to get worse by the second.
"Glam.." You groaned louder. You could see the form shift in the bed before sitting up hurriedly.
"Y/n are you okay?" His usual peppy voice was replaced with concern. Glam didn't really need to ask; you looked horrible. Even with the little light available from the streetlight shining through the window, he could see your zombie-like hunched form. Your mouth filled with saliva, and your breathing got heavier.
"..Trash can" You weakly pointed at the small trash can the hotel provided by the door of the bathroom.
You heaved as you felt your last meal find its way up. Your second heave was met with a trash can held under it just in time. Your hair fell into your face as you prepared for another round.
You held onto the can tightly. You heaved again, you didn't even notice the bed dip beside you. Glam hesitated only for a second, and held your hair away from your face.
"Try breathing through your nose,"
You didn't know what was worse, your head-splitting pain or the motion your body made as it scooped your innards from your stomach up from your mouth, but hearing and feeling Glam somehow seemed to dampen it.
You heaved for a few more rounds until it seemed like your body was done for now.
You slowly leaned back a little, the hand that was once on you now releasing you, your back finding a pillow that was not there before between you and the wall.
You closed your eyes and tried to slow your breathing. You cradled the trash can beside you, Glam sitting on the other side, watching your movements anxiously.
"Do you need to go to the hospital?" You would give a chuckle if it didn't hurt so much.
"They can't do anything." Every word took focus and effort as you spoke with long pauses. It would hurt even worse moving, in addition to the bright fluorescent lights of the hospital, their medicine wouldn't help. Hospitals don't have any medicine you don't already have or haven't tried, and the only other option is drugs that would knock you out and block the pain temporarily, and bring it back worse, but Glam didn't know that.
"Medicine in my bag." You tried to speak coherently with as few words as possible. You felt your bed shift. You hunched over the trash can again as your stomach cramped with nothing in return but spit. Dry heaving is so much worse.
Glam thought back to when he was sick as a child and what his mother did for him. Then he thought about the first time he got hungover. A lotta help Chive was.. Chive wouldn't shut up about food.
You squinted your eyes open to see Glam had returned with bottles of pills, a cup of mouthwash, a glass of water from the bathroom sink, and two cool washcloths also provided by the bathroom sink. It seemed like he brought everything he could think of.
You sipped and took drugs you hoped you could keep down then attempted to lay at the head of the bed, still sitting upright and put the can on the floor. Glam layed one washcloth across your forehead and the other on the back of your neck and stood awkwardly, unsure of what else to do.
"Glam.." You groaned softly, shutting your eyes.
"Yes?"
" Stay..please." You reached your hand out. You felt like you needed support, someone to be with you while you felt like your head was about to explode, perhaps some comfort, just for him to be close by. You felt selfish.
You sank further into the bed, into a position where you could fall asleep. If only you could go to sleep, the pain would leave you.
"Okay"
You looked pained.
Did you want something more out of him? He felt awkward just sitting on the edge, watching you wither.
An unfamiliar feeling, a want to comfort you.
He thought back to the last physical intimacy he had- groupie girls, unwanted advances, flings that were pressured. You felt different; you didn't make him uncomfortable, you didn't even touch him, not without asking permission. Glam remembered when you offered to help detangle a knot in his hair after seeing him struggle, asking first. Why did you ask permission, and those other girls didn't? Did you want to be touched? He was overthinking this.
There was another thought that crossed his mind, a warm feeling from his young childhood. Something a mother would do to soothe her son.
With what sliver of bed was left, Glam shifted to rest against the headboard beside you, his long legs hanging off the side of the bed, giving you as much room as possible. His hand hovered over your head before softly stroking your hair. Your tensed expression relaxed. Your hair felt soft in his thin, callused fingers, as he soothed the volts of pain.
Sleep seemed to come more easily.