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The bus was pretty loud after their 8-3 win against the Islanders, the guys were all shouting over each other, still buzzing even hours after the game. Now they had the drive back to their hotel which should have been fine, an hour. Except stupid New York traffic even when it’s late, now they're all hung up in a long chugging line of cars.
They haven’t moved in ten minutes.
The dinner after their win had been good fun, Ben liked this group of guys. Sure, they were all grandads. Properly old. But, he sort of liked being babied; he could ask one of them to voice his order for him and they just would. He could nab their chips, then smile at them sheepishly and they’d give him the pass (mostly).
So he wouldn’t complain that they’re so late getting back because of a celebratory team gathering, but he will complain that he just wants a bed and not to be trapped on the highway.
He sat on his own two seater, thankfully, head limp on the glass and unable to sleep. Because he never had been able to sleep while travelling, a real inconvenience.
When the bus jerked awake it knocked him up off the glass
His head rattled uncomfortably, before he could lay it back down onto the window. For all of two minutes until the bus sporadically spurted forward again just to move two inches then stop.
Ben groaned internally, this whole stop and start motion was messing with his overly full stomach from the meal.
He shifted in his seat opting to keep his head upright instead.
He'd be alright if he just stayed calm and looked out the window.
Ben lets his eyes slip shut as this worming feeling makes its way through his stomach. He’s restless. He wants to get out of this bus.
Some guys are talking way too loudly about two sets of seats behind him but there’s no chance he’s gonna join in.
The bus lurches forward a few feet. Stops.
Ben feels it through him, his stomach clenching and unclunching with the movement. The saliva multiplied in his mouth.
Wow okay. He really hates this.
He swallows and shifts one leg up onto his seat, letting his hoodie bunch in hopes that there’s a position where his stomach isn’t so coiled up.
But he’s fine. He’s not like, actually that nauseous.
Well, sort of fine.
Ben sits there trying to let his stomach even out.
The bus jerks. The brakes are slammed.
No, no he’s actually not so okay.
Ben squeezes his eyes shut, as this low-level nausea settles. As if it wants to rise up from his stomach, bubbling on the surface.
This has happened a million times before though, Ben knows this story with his eyes closed. He just needs to breathe steady, think about something else, look out the window.
He’s had worse.
And, he just needs to know it won’t happen.
Because he took those meds at the restaurant, and he’s never usually sick with them.
Ben takes a deep breath in. Breathes out.
He did take them didn’t he?
He knows he shouldn’t be stressing himself out but…
Ben pulls himself into action, ignoring the uneasy feeling in his belly as he grabs his bag from under the seat. Checks the front pocket: no meds.
Checks the main pocket: no meds.
Fuck.
His pockets are void of them too.
Holy fuck, did he leave them in the restaurant?
He was talking to Letang in the bathrooms when he went to swallow them, and they were having such a good night.
Hes such a fucking idiot.
Ben didn’t take them. He didn’t even remember to put them back in his bag.
What’s wrong with him?
He always remembers because his worst anything ever is when he gets carsick in front of other people. It’s happened too many times to count but not at the Penguins because he’s been good about it. He literally has a doctor’s prescription of meds.
The bus jolts.
His stomach shifts.
It’s about 1000x worse knowing he really has no protection now. And the bus still has barely moved. He’s completely stuck here.
Ben sits there squeezing his eyes shut and pulling at his hoodie. That creeping feeling will inevitably get higher and higher. And then- he doesn’t want to think about it.
The bus starts to move properly now. The road must have opened up a bit.
Ben slings a loose hand over his stomach and dares to lean his cheek against the cold glass. Sometimes that works. He’s still getting this clammy feeling over his whole body like he needs to run or something.
Helpfully, the bus impulsively stops.
Harshly.
Ben freezes as his stomach properly lurches.
Okay, okay this is really not great.
He would check how far away they are but he thinks looking at his phone really would be playing with fire.
He sucks in breaths through his teeth trying his best to stay still. So still.
If he just rides it out, maybe. It could be okay.
But his skin feels waxy and he shrugs off his hoodie. The movement lets the nausea take hold for a second and then he really has a shock of terror.
He’s about to throw up.
Holy fuck.
Ben slams a hand onto his mouth.
Nothing happens.
He opens his eyes and still nothing has happened. Except that his insides are moving so uncomfortably and wildly it feels like he really could be sick at one prod.
Maybe he should say something.
But he.
He really doesn't want to make a thing about it.
Ben stays in his seat.
He’s fine. It will be okay.
The bus awakens and it’s moving again, properly moving.
Oh he hates this.
Ben lasts all of two minutes before he’s gnawed all the skin off his lower lip. He can’t throw up alone at the back of the bus. Can’t let people gradually turn and ask what that smell is. He won’t let it happen.
And he’s 19 for fucks sake, just get up and sort it.
Ben inhales roughly as he stands up, head tilting precariously. His nausea spikes fast and mean. He clamps a precautionary hand over his mouth and tenses all his muscles.
No, no he’s fine. Just start walking.
So, he does start walking.
Moves, ignores the queasiness that quite obviously is begging for attention inside of him. Struggles over bag straps on the floor and one of the guys grabbing onto his hoodie as he passes. Maybe saying something. Ben doesn’t know.
His breathings are so jagged even he can feel it unevenly hitting his face.
He doesn’t even think about the end goal, just…
Just forward.
He reaches about the front of the bus and conveniently Sid’s row.
Huh.
Of course his subconscious sick brain would bring him here, wouldn’t it?
Ben awkwardly hovers, teetering suddenly over what he’ll say. It’s his own fault, really. He shouldn’t be forcing anyone else into dealing with his own sloppy mess.
Except.
His stomach hiccups.
He reaches out to tap Sid on the shoulder.
Sid turns straight away, still smiling from talking to Geno beside him. He stops smiling when he sees Ben’s face.
It’s probably comically pale. Ben’s been told it before, he looks weirdly vampire-y when he’s carsick. Sort of deranged. He just hopes Sid will forget about this after today. Or hopefully never bring it up.
Sid’s eyebrows draw in closer and he looks concerned at Ben.
“Kindy, hey.” He starts, “Are you– you about to faint or something? You look sick.” He says with a low voice, half standing up to meet the boy in the bus corridor.
Ben shakes his head, though not confidently. He was hot, and he’s sweating. He can feel his hands moistening but now his arms have these protruding goosebumps all over. He hates this bit. Everything’s wrong.
“I’m sorry.”
His voice is too thin.
“You don’t have to be sorry Kindy, here you should sit. Then tell me what’s up.” Sid gives him his seat automatically.
His captain looks too worried. Ben didn’t want to worry him.
Ben gingerly sits on Sid’s still warm seat, hating the way any change of altitude sends his stomach careening. Please, he just doesn’t want to throw up with all his team here.
“Kinders, talk to me.” Sid’s kneeling on the floor beside him.
He’s still got his whole forehead scrunched up worriedly checking over Ben’s features.
He hesitates. Embarrassed. “I usually have these–” the bus lurches. He squeezes his eyes shut, curling a hand around his stomach. “Carsick meds. I forgot to take them, I think I left them at the restaurant.” Ben swallows, “M’ sorry.”
Sid doesn’t hesitate.
“Geno,” he calls, quiet enough that the whole bus won’t hear, “Tell the driver to pull over at the next chance.”
Ben doesn’t even hear what’s happening around him, doesn’t hear Geno's response over this new thrumming in his ears.
A big hand has come up to rub circles between his shoulders. “It’s gonna be okay,”
He thinks that’s what Sid says at least.
Another big hand is offering him a water bottle that Ben can just about screw the top off himself. With unsteady fingers he takes a tiny sip.
He knows from past experiences not to gulp it.
There’s more movement at his feet, some rummaging. Ben cracks open one eye allowing the spinning of the world around him to see his captain holding out a plastic bag.
Ben grabs it like a lifeline.
He so fucking hates this.
“Just breathe, you’re alright.” the voice is saying close to him.
The stop start motion continues again. Ben grips the bag tighter at the feeling, uncomfortably squirming into the seat, digging his feet into the padding.He hasn’t felt this bad in years.
Another stop from the driver sends Ben flinching painfully. He bangs his elbow on the arm rest and lets out a choked sound before he can stop it.
Everything’s the wrong temperature and his whole insides feel like they’re viscerally imploding.
The hand on his back definitely lays heavier.
Somewhere above him, there’s voices.
Ben catches wind of:
“Thirty minutes–”
Well, that’s just. Just, no.
He’ll be forced to do it right here if he has to wait that long. He can’t, please. Please don’t let him throw up here.
His stomach climbs even higher and Ben can’t help it. He gags suddenly over the bag. This dinosaur noise tumbling out of him as spit hangs from his mouth. No vomit. Yet.
Just the painful scraping of acid up his throat, a burning reminder that he definitely doesn’t have a whole half hour.
“Sorry–” He mumbles, voice collapsing in on itself.
The big hands give him a quick squeeze on his shoulder. Sid.
“You’re good. You’re fine, don’t worry about it, Kinders.”
Ben sort of understands his words, and hopes he’s right.
Except the nausea isn’t going away.
He gags again. Painfully.
Tears spring into the corners of his eyes before he can stop them.
He hates being so fucking helpless.
The bus has definitely gone quieter around him too. He almost misses their hollering, please can they not listen to this? He doesn’t want them to know what he sounds like gagging.
Then, there’s movement. Real movement because this time Sid’s saying, “We’re stopping, yeah?” And the big hands on his back are gone. Ben feels the world stumble with him as he treacherously edges his way off the seat.
Sid places an arm on his back and forearm, and Ben doesn’t argue. He feels his mouth getting too obviously full and he really really hopes it’s just saliva.
Stepping off the bus, the air’s sharp and cold. Ben lets himself open his eyes just to careen forward into the grass.
He hits it. Hard.
He braces one hand on his knee as his stomach finally, finally, upchurns everything from the night. It tenses painfully and rips at his mouth as he vomits into the bushes.
Ben’s whole body shakes with it, the heat and the cold crashing together making him wonder if he really might pass out while he’s being sick.
“Easy,” Sid’s still here sitting beside Ben.
Kindy wants to tell him to go, to not look. Something.
Except he sort of likes that someone’s here holding him upright so he doesn’t face plant into his own stomach’s contents.
Ben just–
Goes.
Until nothing’s left inside of him.
He’s dry heaving with heavy breaths.
He’s probably stuck there for about five minutes until it eventually relents.
Ben sags backwards, exhausted. “God.” he mutters out.
“Yeah.” Sid chuckles softly from behind him, before handing him back a bottle of water, “Rinse.”
Ben sheepishly wipes the back of his mouth before gargling some water. Then spitting to the side.
They stay there not talking for a little while. Still. Ben can almost forget that probably the whole bus is ogling at him.
Then he remembers, Sid probably deserves some sort of an explanation. Or an apology. His hands tremble still as he turns back to look at Sid, “Hey, uh. I’m really sorry”
He’s so uneloquent sometimes.
“Don’t be, you got sick. That’s not on you.” Sid cuts in. “And you can keep the bottle.”
Ben blinks.
“But, I forgot to take my meds.” He thumbs the cap of the bottle in his hand.
“Well we can’t expect you to get everything right. You’ve got a lot on your plate, Kindy.”
And that’s nicer than Ben would’ve expected from anyone.
He nods faintly, hesitant to let it be okay.
But he knows not to disagree with Sidney Crosby.
“...Okay”
“We’ll buy you some meds at the next stop.”
Ben whines slightly, “Is the next stop really in a half hour though? I don’t want to have a round two before we get there.”
Sid laughs at their rookie. “It’s okay Geno’s mapped another one that’s only ten minutes. Are you okay to stand?”
“Yes, Sid. It was my stomach, not my legs.” Kindy still gets up slowly, Sid squeezing his shoulder as he does so.
Ben’s just glad he didn’t actually vomit on the bus.