Work Text:
4am
His body wakes him early. Much too early. It always seems to hit like this- when he’s vulnerable, asleep and least expecting it. It feels like waking into a nightmare.
5am
He calls in sick to the automated employee hotline. No one else is awake yet. No one to field his call at the Ozark Highlands store. No gentle, sympathetic Amy. No bumbling, father figure Glenn. No one to tell him to feel better soon. No one to tell him it’s all ok. Because it isn’t.
Maybe it’s better that way.
On the phone, his voice is rough with sleep and hoarse with pain. He feels drained. Maybe he sounds as bad as he feels, but it won’t matter regardless. There’s a weird kind of comfort in knowing no one will ever even hear his message as he waits for the beep- stating his name, employee number and reason for absence. It’s different every time; he makes sure of it.
8am
He hears Garrett get up and start moving around the flat, getting ready for work.
hey man, had to call in sick- been up all night puking. dont want you to catch it. just gonna go back to bed
He hears Garrett’s phone vibrate with the message and holds his breath, but the knock never comes. Maybe Garrett will miss him, or maybe he’ll be grateful for the peace and quiet.
11am
The flat has been quiet for hours except for the distant thrum of the washing machine. He is grateful that Garrett’s flat is small; it isn’t far for him to drag his wash basket. He wasn’t so lucky in his old flat. The stumble of shame, up three flights of stairs, often left him close to tears. But then again, no one knew him there.
Maybe that was better.
1pm
Jonah spends the afternoon alternating between the sofa and the bathroom. He runs out of painkillers because he forgot to replace them last time. Out of sight, out of mind. It’s easier to live in denial.
He shuffles to the door in sweatpants and one of Garrett’s old hoodies to hide his body, and the doordasher looks at him like he has two heads. He doesn’t know; how could he? Yet Jonah feels judgmental eyes burn through him as he nods in silent thanks, barely able to meet his eye. He’ll leave a generous tip.
3pm
Another hour on the bathroom floor waiting for the painkillers to work. His bones hurt. His sweatpants dig into his tender waist, and his chest aches from the pressure that he longs to relieve but can’t bring himself to. It’s a constant battle between physical and mental suffering. Right now, he doesn’t know what’s winning.
His body protests as he forces himself to stand and drink some water, cupped in his hands, straight from the faucet. The painkillers aren’t working. He throws the water up right back into the sink.
Arms braced on the countertop, he takes in his reflection in the mirror. Pale. Haggard. Pain that goes beyond purely physical, evident in his eyes. Except there are no painkillers for this kind of pain- no option but to hurt.
He has that same greyish pallor of someone who’s just been sick. He already felt disgusting, and puking has only made it worse. He wishes he could escape from his own skin.
Ironic.
4pm
Jonah eventually makes it back into bed, into newly changed sheets that still smell like fresh linen. He tries to tell himself it was worth the effort, but his mind is so clouded by suffering that he barely notices the difference.
Clean, cosy sweatpants, peppermint tea and a hot water bottle. He hoped they would help. They don’t.
Nauseated and clammy, he kicks his trash can closer to the bed and flops down into the duvet, kicking it off his legs and clutching the rest of it tight against his body as he curls into a ball. The deep, gnawing ache in his stomach is all he can focus on, but in some twisted kind of way it comes as a relief- a distraction from the gnawing shame. It would serve as an anchor, something simple and tangible to drown out the noise, if it were not for the reason behind it.
Jonah buries his head into the pillow with an exhale. He might puke again- if not now, then certainly later. At least that sells the lie. He shudders, hugging himself through another wave of pain, trying to show himself maybe a shred of compassion even when he feels he deserves none.
-
At some point in his half-asleep daze, he hears Garrett arrive home. For the first time that day, Jonah feels himself relax a little. Garrett’s presence makes everything feel more normal. He is filled with a sense of hope, a fleeting feeling that he is no longer alone.
He will always be alone.
He wonders what Garrett will think this time. Maybe a stomach bug, maybe food poisoning. Could be IBS. He should’ve gone with that from the start instead of scrambling to think of something new every time. But Garrett doesn’t really seem to care. That’s the beauty of his best friend. He never asks questions, doesn’t pry. He can sense when to leave him alone and gives him space when he needs it.
-
Some time later, Garrett gently pushes his door open. Jonah pretends to be asleep.
"You alive?"
It’s a fair question. Jonah shrugs, not moving from his pile of bunched-up duvet, hand half raked through his hair to keep the damp off his forehead.
"You look awful."
"Thanks." Jonah manages a smile.
“Here-” Garrett slides in with a tray on his lap. His favourite ginger sweets, a glass of water and some Pepto. It won’t help, but it warms Jonah’s heart all the same.
-
Later that evening, Jonah emerges from his room, shrouded in a blanket and braced against the door frame with one arm wrapped around his waist.
“Is that my hoodie?”
Jonah slumps wordlessly onto the couch, bringing his legs up to his chest as he silently judges Garrett’s trashy sci-fi show.
“Oh, I got you these-” Garrett throws a packet of crackers at him. “For when you’re feeling better.” The organic farm ones that he wrote an article about for his blog. His favourite.
Garrett orders takeout. Jonah can’t eat much, but it’s his favourite: margarita pizza from the fancy Italian place he likes, and Garrett loves to hate.
He doesn’t talk, but Garrett probably savours that part. In a way, the shared silence is comforting. They’ve been through this little routine more times than he can count- sick days followed by quiet evenings spent in silent solidarity. If Garrett ever suspects anything, he never mentions it.
Evenings like these are what get Jonah through those lonely, miserable days. In the past, he would have shut himself away; isolated himself from everyone. But just an hour on the couch with Garrett makes him feel somewhat like a normal human again.
A small moment of solace.