Work Text:
There were three things Kent never did:
1. Whine
2. Beg during sex
3. Miss a hockey game
Until today, of course.
Kent woke up late, head pounding, muscles aching and a sour taste at the back of his mouth. He squinted and covered his eyes when he tried to check the time on his phone. Realizing he had missed his alarm by nearly two hours he sprung out of bed and made it halfway out of the his bedroom before hitting a wall and waiting while his body learned to stand straight again and the blood had quit rushing to his head.
He held his breath while he pressed his forehead against the cool drywall. His stomach turned and he wasn’t positive he could stand on his own.
When he sighed again, he pushed off the wall and stumbled to the kitchen. He pulled the first glass he saw out of the cupboard and filled it with water, choking the cool liquid down. It somewhat soothed Kent’s sore throat but it made his stomach flip, in which Kent groaned in reply to.
He could skip the run today and try home remedies instead and hopefully after the handfuls of anti-nauseant and soups he would feel fine enough to skate tonight. Even if he wouldn’t, there’s no way Kent would miss a game.
After feeding Kit and downing a couple more glasses of water, Kent stood in his kitchen feeling much more steady on his feet. He flipped through google, first on something that would settle his still rumbling stomach. Everything said ginger so he looked through his cupboards for the magical root. He should have some somewhere. Swoops had come over less than a week ago to make Kent some ginger chicken thing and it wasn’t bad, so where the fuck was- oh! Behind the milk in his fridge he found a small baggy of peeled and chopped ginger. Well fuck, he hoped it was ginger.
Checking the clock on the stove again, he opened the bag. He didn’t have time to cook this down into some tea mixture with a million other spices. He needed to do this, change and head to the rink and talk with the trainers. He shrugged and wondered what else he had to lose before popping a smaller piece of ginger in his mouth and chewing while he ran to his room to change into actual clothes.
His muscles still ached with every step he took so maybe track pants were a better idea for today. He was pulling them on when his tongue started to burn. He couldn’t swallow the ginger when his mouth was on fire, so he spat whatever he could out into the garbage can at the front of his room.
Letting out a low, “what the fuck?”, Kent turned back to getting changed. Ginger was bullshit, leaning over made his head throb again and his stomach had started to flip more rapidly, following his heart. He pulled a thick hoodie over his t-shirt when the chills came and started towards the door, bag slung over his shoulder. He was flipping his keys over his finger when the final stomach flip happened and his mouth began to fill with saliva, bile rising in his throat. Not wanting to make a mess of the front door, he dropped his bag and keys and sped walk to the bathroom, barely making it before emptying his stomach of all the water he had drank today and whatever he had eaten last night.
He kept his eyes closed while he flushed the toilet and rinsed his mouth. He dried his mouth with his jacket sleeve and looked at himself in the mirror. Whatever this was could only be described as, ‘lookin’ rough, feelin’ rougher’.
***
When he finally got to the arena he had already started to feel ten times sicker than he did when he was in the comfort of his own home. Thank fucking christ he knew this place like the back of his hand. He didn’t plan on yakking on any floor anytime soon.
Stepping into the coach’s office he got one glance over before:
“Kent, you look like shit.”
“Thank you, Coach. Sorry about being late too, this look took awhile to perfect.”
“Shut up, Parson. Seriously, are you feeling alright?”
Kent sighed and leaned against the door frame. Maybe his teen angst look would make him look like he’s annoyed and not like he’s trying to keep his balance. “I’m feeling fine,” he grumbled. Why the fuck was the room spinning so fast?
Coach sighed and pointed out the door, “go see the trainer, Parson.”
Kent replied with a mock salute and was on his way. He was starting to sweat under his hoodie, but at the same time he thought he’d freeze to death if he took it off. He shivered once and stepped into the trainer’s room, giving him a wave.
“Morning, Kev.”
“Kent it’s three in the afternoon.”
Kent nodded, he wasn’t wrong. Maybe his home remedies kept him back. This entire morning was a blur. Did he even remember to feed Kit?
“Kent!”
Kent snapped his head up. Kev had been snapping his fingers in Kent’s face. What the fuck was wrong with him?
“Yo, Kev, what can I do for you?”
Kev sighed and ran a hand over his face, “I was just about to ask you the same thing, Parson. Why are you here?”
Kent squinted and rethought the last thirty minutes. Why was he here? He puked, he brushed his teeth again, he drank a glass of water, he drove to the arena, he mapped possible puking stations, he talked to coach-
“Coach wanted you to check me out, I guess.”
Kev pat his table and Kent dropped his bag, walking over to hop up. He shivered again and felt his stomach doing flips.
Kev pulled Kent’s sunglasses off and made a face, “did you sleep at all last night, Kent?”
“I actually overslept.”
“Well, are you high?” Kev asked, moving Kent’s face around.
“Who the fuck do you think I am, Kevin?”
“Just checking,” he mumbled. He pressed his hand against Kent’s forehead and frowned.
Stepping away Kent let out a sigh. He should have taken more pain medication before he had come. Everything was burning and he didn’t like it.
He was barely alone in his own thoughts when a thermometer was shoved in his mouth, close to making him gag, but he kept whatever was left in his stomach down and raised an eyebrow.
“Kent, you’re burning up.”
Again his stomach flipped and he rolled his head to the side. His neck didn’t want to cooperate anymore and he could feel a lump moving in his throat again.
The thermometer was pulled from his mouth and a hand was on the side of his face, “Kent? Parson? You’re looking pale.”
Kev had started to talk again when Kent threw himself off the table and kneeled in
front of the trashcan by the door, heaving while his palms grew sweatier.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, but half of the time Kent was just spitting into the trash, hoping for whatever the fuck just happened to be over. When he stood again, he gave Kev a weak smile who passed him a water bottle in return and spoke four words.
“You’re not playing tonight.”
Kent swallowed little sips and shook his head, “I’ll be fine! I promise!”
“Kent. I’m sending you home. You get hit once you’ll pass out or puke on the ice and one of those is a lot more disgusting than the other and we want to avoid that situation as long as we can.”
Before Kent could argue, Coach had stepped in the room and wrinkled his nose at the smell of Kent’s vomit only few feet from him.
Kev apologized for making the call to send the Aces’ captain home, but once he had explained the situation, Coach pressed his own hand against Kent’s forehead and his face fell.
“Kent, go home. Sleep up. They can handle this one game without you. You might just slow them down if you’re here and playing today will just prolong the effects.”
He sighed and dropped to the floor to pick up his bag. He knew all the words his coach were saying were right, but Kent Parson never missed a game unless someone was dying, godbless Grandma Parson, and he couldn’t help but be pissed about the situation. When he finally started back towards his car, hat on, hood up, shades covering most of his face, his now arriving teammates didn’t comment. If they would have they would have met Kent Parson’s middle finger. That’s exactly what Swoops was met with and he said no more.
***
Kent doesn’t remember getting home, or changing into shorts, or crawling into bed, or moving the trashcan beside his bed, or drinking the powerade that if being puked into said trashcan right now, but those are all things that have happened and Kent can prove it. He doesn’t even remember falling asleep, but he did because when he checks his phone again it’s almost time for puck drop. That means he had been asleep almost four hours. He wants to tweet goodluck, or look for a livestream to catch the game, but both of those options seem too complicated when sleep is still calling him, and so he fades back under.
***
He wakes up again when someone puts a hand against his forehead.
“Mom?”
“You wish, buddy,” the deep voice says, and Kent squints to look at a disheveled Swoops.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Swoops?” He remembers giving Swoops a key all those years ago. It was less frequently used now, but maybe times like these would be considered the emergency he originally gave him the key for. Booty calls were not considered emergencies and they went over that, but there was never a situation Kent couldn't handle and that key had to be used sometime.
“You looked like trash earlier, like trashier than usual, and you wouldn’t answer my texts and coach just said you were too sick to even stick around so I thought I’d come check up on you so I know you didn’t choke on your own vomit or something,” he said. “I also cleaned up whatever mess was in your kitchen and brought you a new trash can, that other one was fucking gnarly, Parson.”
Kent nodded, made somewhat of a happy noise and tried to curl into the covers again. He didn’t want Swoops to leave so he spoke with a hoarse voice, clearing his throat twice before anymore words would come out, “how was the game?”
All Kent had got out of that was that the Aces’ had won and then sleep had taken over him again. It wasn’t long that he was peaceful before a low whine came from him and he was puking over the side of the bed again. His retching must have woken up a sleeping Swoops who Kent didn’t even know was here because the taller man came rushing into the room and rubbed Kent’s back while he dry heaved.
He pressed a cold cloth against Kent’s forehead and mumbled, “I’ll be right back,” before escaping the room, holding the trash arms length away from him.
Kent swallowed hard and flipped onto his opposite side, immediately struck with more pain. He whined again and hugged a pillow to his chest.
Kent hated being sick.
Kent hated Swoops being here.
He could take care of his damn self.
“Parson? You good?”, Swoops asked, stepping into the room with another glass of water.
“I fucking hate being sick,” Kent mumbled. Tears pricked his eyes, “I just want to sleep, but I can’t. My body hates me, my fucking bones ache, my muscles are ready to fall apart. My head is going to explode and you’re here to watch the fucking downfall of me.”
The bed dipped and Kent’s hair was being pushed off his forehead. Swoops chuckled quietly and mumbled, “overdramatic?”
Kent whined again and pressed his face into Swoops’ thigh.
“Shit, Parson. I can feel that through my pants.”
Kent was assuming he meant his body heat, but he still grinned.He dug his face deeper and sighed, “I just want to sleep.”
Swoops rubbed Kent’s shoulders slowly and nodded, “I’m sure a pillow is comfier than my leg.”
“You’re not allowed to leave,” Kent mumbled, reaching up to grab Swoops’ hand. Maybe it was the flu that was making Kent softer, or maybe the flu just released his need for attention, but he still held on tight and whined a soft, “please?”
He could feel Swoops shimmy further into bed, and Kent’s head was moved from his leg to his chest, the sheets on his bed pulled tighter around him.
This felt familiar. They had fallen asleep like this after drunken nights before, but it had been a while and Kent missed waking up with Swoops’ arms around him.
He sighed, happier this time and traced patterns on Swoops’ bare chest.
Everything still hurt, but this felt nicer. Maybe needing someone sometimes wasn’t so bad.
“Jeff?”
“Hmm, Parse?”
“You’re not allowed to be pissed if I puke on you,” Kent mumbled, have sinceer, a small smile still riding his lips.
“I’m quitting the team if you do,” Swoops replied, with a huff but Kent still felt lips pressed against his forehead and he fell asleep hoping he’d remember this when he woke up the next morning.