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Brendon wakes up in the middle of the night when Patrick rolls ungracefully out of bed and nearly falls over on his way to the bathroom. “...Rick?” Brendon mumbles, hands grasping at empty air where before there had been an armful of Patrick. When he doesn’t get a reply other than the soft click of the bathroom door, Brendon forces his other eye open, then lets them both fall shut again. He’s too...he’s too tired to stay awake…
He’s almost fallen back asleep when he hears the sound of retching, and his eyes shoot open. Oh god, Patrick is sick. Brendon forces himself out of bed, ignoring the heavy fatigue of his limbs, and stumbles over to the bathroom. He leans against the door, resting his forehead on the cool wood and knocking softly. “Patrick?” he calls. “Are you okay?”
He doesn’t get an answer other than the sound of his boyfriend gagging, so Brendon slowly pushes the door open, revealing a shaking Patrick clutching the toilet like it’s a life preserver and he’s drowning. Patrick spits, then reaches up with trembling fingers to flush. He clears his throat. “M’sick,” he rasps, voice raw.
Brendon eases down to the cold tile floor of the bathroom, folding Patrick into his arms and rubbing his back soothingly. “Do you feel better now that you’ve got it out of your system?”
Patrick shrugs weakly. “I dunno. Yes. Maybe.” He gags again. “ No .” Quickly, he turns away from Brendon and back to the toilet bowl, his sides heaving as he vomits again.
Worry twists at Brendon’s heart as he continues to rub the other man’s back. Patrick burps and then spits again, groaning. “Can I have...some water?” he asks, fingers tight on the porcelain. He's shaking.
“Of course, baby,” Brendon replies, heaving himself off the floor. “I'll be right back.” He walks quickly into the kitchen, keeping a hand on the wall—he's so tired he almost falls over—and fills a cup halfway with tap water before heading back to the bathroom. Patrick is sitting leaning back against the wall, legs on either side of the toilet.
Brendon crouches down and hands Patrick the glass before standing again and fetching a washcloth. He runs warm water over it then settles down next to Patrick on the floor again, reaching out with a tender touch to wipe the trail of spit from the corner of his mouth.
Patrick chokes and burps again, loud and uncomfortable. “Are you gonna throw up again?” Brendon asks softly, rubbing at his eye with one hand.
Patrick closes his eyes and leans his head back, breathing heavily. “Dunno,” he whispers, grimacing.
Leaning his head on Patrick’s shoulder, Brendon hums soothingly. “Do y’need anything else?” he slurs, sleep attempting to overtake him.
Patrick shrugs. “Not right now.”
“M’kay,” Brendon says, “but if you need anything lemme know.”
Patrick takes a breath like he’s going to say something, but before he can get any words out, every muscle in his body tenses up and he lets out a pained sound. Brendon lifts his head. “What’s wrong?” he asks, worried.
Patrick gasps and clutches at his stomach, hunching over in a ball. “It hurts,” he sobs, toes curling. “Fuck, fucking fuck.”
“Oh god, baby,” Brendon murmurs, wrapping his arms around Patrick and pressing a kiss to his hot forehead. “I’m so sorry.”
Patrick is only able to groan in reply, pushing weakly out of Brendon’s embrace to lean over the toilet again. He spits, his throat working, but doesn’t throw up. It’s mostly dry heaves at this point, and Brendon watches with an aching heart at Patrick vomits twice more over the next quarter of an hour, nothing but stomach bile.
When Patrick finally leans back, curling into Brendon’s lap, Brendon hands him the washcloth to wipe his mouth again. Patrick’s breathing is erratic and too-fast, so Brendon subconsciously tightens his grip. “Shh, baby,” he soothes, “calm down. Try to take deep breaths; you’re going to hyperventilate.”
Nodding, Patrick sucks in a shaky breath and forces his breathing to slow down. After a minute or so, he turns and buries his head in Brendon’s chest. “Can you help me stand?” he asks, voice tiny. “I want to brush my teeth.”
“Of course.” Brendon pulls Patrick to his feet and keeps a protective hand on his waist as his boyfriend brushes his teeth with tired movements, struggling to keep his eyes open.
Noticing how sleepy Brendon is, Patrick pauses. “I’m sorry I woke you up,” he mumbles around the toothpaste.
Brendon shakes his head. “Don’t be,” he reassures the shorter man. “I’ll stay up all night if I have to.” As if to prove his point, he ducks his head to drop a kiss on Patrick’s exposed shoulder—the large t shirt he’s wearing is drooping sideways off his frame—then leads him back to bed. Patrick climbs in gingerly, curling his body up in a ball. Brendon crawls in next to him and pulls him close, placing a gentle hand on his stomach. “Do you think it was something you ate?”
Patrick shrugs weakly, not saying anything.
Thinking back over dinner last night, Brendon can’t think of what could have made Patrick feel so sick. They had gone out on a date night, somewhere a bit nicer than normal, but steak and lobster—what they both ended up getting—shouldn’t have affected Patrick this badly. Besides, Brendon had the same thing, and he’s fine.
Unable to stay awake any longer (it’s late and they hadn’t exactly... slept much the night before), Brendon presses one last kiss to Patrick’s hair and then drifts off to sleep.
Brendon is yanked from sleep a few hours later—it’s about three in the morning now—in the same way. Patrick seems frustrated and in pain, and by the time Brendon has stumbled after him he’s already thrown up again. “Hey babe,” Brendon mumbles, failing at keeping his eyes open. He sways and puts his hand on the wall to steady himself.
Patrick coughs. “I...I feel better now,” he croaks, reaching with a shaky hand. Brendon laces their fingers together. “It still hurt before, but now...now it’s better.”
“Tha’s good,” Brendon mumbles, trying and failing to think of something else to say.
“You can go back to bed,” Patrick says softly, but Brendon shakes his head.
“No,” he protests, “I’m gonna make sure you’re okay.”
Patrick smiles tiredly. “Thanks B.”
“Mm hm,” Brendon replies, helping Patrick up and watching as he brushes his teeth again. He hands Patrick the glass of water, left on the counter from before. “Anything you need.”
Patrick takes a small sip of the water, relief flooding his face when he swallows. Brendon's sure his throat must feel like shit.
“You ready t’go to bed?” Brendon mumbles, wrapping his arms around Patrick's waist and burying his head in his neck.
“Yeah,” Patrick sighs. They head back to the bedroom. “Sorry for keeping you up.”
“Don't be,” Brendon reassures him, stretching out across the mattress and pulling Patrick down with him. He nuzzles into Patrick's hair, pushing the sweaty locks off his forehead. “I love you.”
“Love you too, B,” Patrick whispers, and they both drift back into sleep.
Brendon drags himself out of bed the next morning, gingerly untangling himself from Patrick’s grip—the red-blond always manages to wrap himself completely around Brendon as they sleep. Patrick grumbles and Brendon carefully slides a pillow into Patrick’s arms until he settles down again.
Padding into the kitchen, Brendon dials his mom’s number on his phone, waiting impatiently until she picks up.
“Brendon?”
“Hey mom,” he says, smiling and leaning on the counter.
“Hi honey, what’s going on?”
Brendon sighs. “Patrick’s sick. He was up late last night and threw up a bunch.”
“Oh I’m sorry sweetie. Tell him I hope he feels better.”
“I will when he wakes up,” Brendon promises.
“You should make him some toast,” his mother advises. “With the tiniest bit of butter. And a glass of tap water.”
Brendon chuckles and wedges the phone between his ear and shoulder as he pulls out the bread from the pantry. “How did you know I was going to ask you what to do?”
“I’m your mother,” Mrs. Urie laughs. “And Patrick’s sick; what else would you ask about?”
Brendon grins, sliding a slice of bread into the toaster. “You know me so well, mom.”
“I would hope so. I’ve known you for nearly twenty-four years.” He can hear her smile over the phone. “Make sure he gets lots of rest—let him sleep.”
“I will,” Brendon promises. “Thanks, mom.”
“And now I suppose you’re going to hang up on me,” his mother teases. “Now that I’ve used up all my usefulness to you.”
Brendon flushes, thankful that his mom can’t see him at the moment. “That’s not—I’m not—”
“It’s okay Bren,” she laughs. “I know Patrick’s sick and you want to take care of him, so I’ll leave you to it. Just promise me to give me a real call soon. Oh, and I’ll let you know if I think of anything else you can do for him.”
“Thank you,” Brendon says sheepishly. He had been about to ask that. “And I promise I’ll call you again soon.”
“Alright. Bye sweetie. I love you.”
“Bye mom. I love you too.”
Brendon hangs up the call and stretches, taking the toast out once it pops up and lightly buttering it. When he heads back into their bedroom, Patrick is awake and blinking sleepily.
“Hey,” Brendon murmurs, setting down the plate and cup and brushing Patrick’s hair back before kissing his forehead softly. “How do you feel?”
“Hungry,” Patrick mumbles.
Brendon chuckles. “Good thing I made you toast then.”
Patrick’s light up. “Oh my god thank you.”
“Anything for you, Rick,” Brendon says sincerely.
“You're too good to me,” Patrick says, nibbling on his toast.
“Nothing is too good for you,” Brendon declares. “Perfection isn't enough for you, babe.”
Patrick grins down at his toast. “Shut up.”
Glad to see that Patrick is feeling better, Brendon kisses his cheek before saying, “I'll call Spence and tell him I can't make it today.”
Patrick frowns and chomps down on a particularly crispy corner of crust. “You don't have to do that. Go into the studio if you want.”
“Mm,” Brendon hums, “I do want to. But I want to stay here with you more.”
Finishing off the last of the toast, Patrick makes a face. “I don’t see why. I’m going to do nothing but be boring and sleep all day.”
“You’re adorable when you sleep,” Brendon says. “Besides, I’m tired too. And I can always watch tv.”
“M’not adorable,” Patrick protests.
Brendon kisses his nose. “Yes you are. The most adorable.”
Patrick sighs contentedly, obviously tired. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” Brendon says, then pulls back and walks outside to call Spencer. He explains that he won’t be able to make it in today, and at first when he says he’s going to spend the day with Patrick, Spencer sounds exasperated.
“Honestly, Bren, it’s like you guys don’t already do it enough already.”
“What? No, Spence,” Brendon laughs. “He’s sick. I’m staying home to take care of him.”
“Really? Well, in that case tell him I hope he feels better.”
“I will,” Brendon promises, biting back a smile. “Bye Spence.”
“Bye.”
When Brendon goes back into their bedroom, Patrick is already asleep again, chest rising and falling in breaths that are still too shallow for Brendon’s liking. He leaves a lingering kiss on Patrick’s forehead, until the frown there is smoothed out. He would do anything to take away the pain.
The next time Patrick wakes up, Brendon is sitting in bed with his leg pressed to Patrick’s, earbuds in and tapping at his phone. When he notices Patrick is awake, he pulls out his headphones. “Hey.”
Patrick blinks a few times. “What year is it?” he asks, stuck in that weird post-nap limbo.
“2032,” Brendon says solemnly. “You slept for twenty-two years. You’re actually still sleeping. This is a dream, and I’m not real.” He widens his eyes and makes Twilight Zone noises.
Patrick rolls his eyes. “Shut up,” he grouches.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” Brendon reaches out to brush his arm lightly. “Does your stomach hurt again?”
Patrick presses his lips together as a low gurgling sound comes from his gut. “Yes.”
Brendon leans over and kisses Patrick’s stomach softly. “I’m sorry babe.”
Shifting uncomfortably, Patrick shrugs. “It’s not like you can do anything about it.”
“Do you need me to get you anything?”
“Nah,” Patrick sighs. “I just want to feel better.”
Brendon studies Patrick for a moment, then smiles. “While you were asleep I went out and bought you some stuff.”
“Oh really?” Patrick says softly.
“Really,” Brendon grins. He hops out of bed and hurries into the kitchen and back, showing off what he has in his hands proudly.
“Plain saltine crackers and Sprite?”
“The best cure for an upset stomach,” Brendon reassures him. “My favorite sick snack when I was little.”
Patrick looks amused. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Brendon says airily, tearing open a sleeve of crackers and waving one temptingly in front of his face.
“You called your mom, didn’t you?”
“...Maybe. But that doesn’t mean it’s still a good idea.”
“No,” Patrick agrees, looking much too smug for someone who had kept Brendon up half the night barfing out his insides. He reaches for a cracker, but Brendon tuts. “Ah ah, you’re sick. I have to feed you.”
“Bren,” Patrick complains, but shuts up when Brendon works the cracker into his mouth, the both of them laughing. “You’re despicable.”
Brendon sticks his tongue out. “Your face is despicable.”
“You love my face.”
“You got me there, Patty Boy.”
Patrick scowls and pushes away Brendon’s second attempt at feeding him. “Oh my god. Fucking call me that one more time and I swear to god I’ll—”
Brendon cuts him off with a swift kiss. “Glad to see you’re feeling better,” he murmurs against his lips.
“Shut up,” Patrick grumbles, but he kisses him back.
Pulling away, Brendon replaces his lips with the edge of the Sprite bottle, twisting off the cap with a hiss as he goes. “Drink up, gorgeous.”
“Okay wait,” Patrick says, “sure you can think I’m… ’gorgeous’ or whatever, but there’s no way in hell I look good right now. You don’t have to lie; I know I look like shit.”
And sure, maybe he looks a little pale (even more so than normal), and really tired, but Brendon...Brendon doesn’t see any of it. There will never be a day where Patrick doesn’t look beautiful to him. “I’ll never lie to you about that,” Brendon promises, and tilts the bottle until Patrick grabs it out of his hands and glares.
“I can do it on my own, thank you very much. I don’t need you spilling it everywhere.”
“Why not? If it got on both of us, we might have to shower to get it off, and then who knows what could hap—”
“Brendon,” Patrick laughs. “Stop it, oh my god. I’m not having sex with you while I’m sick. What the fuck.”
“You’re better now,” Brendon pouts, winking. Joking about how often sex is on his brain—usually, sometimes it just makes his boyfriend even more pissy—is a surefire way to put Patrick in a good mood. An exasperated and I-hate-you-so-much-that-I-love-you kind of mood, sure, but it’s still a good one.
Patrick sighs and leans back into his pillows. “Not quite, babe. All I need is for you to wait on me hand-and-foot all day and I’ll be right as rain in no time.”
“Your wish is my command,” Brendon says with a flourish.
“Then I command you to kiss me,” Patrick says.
Brendon taps his nose. “Only if you agree to eat your crackers.”
Patrick bites his lip slowly, shifting to be more comfortable in the sheets. “I promise.”
“Then I think we can come to an agreement,” Brendon murmurs, leaning forward slightly, then he glances over to the sleeve of crackers. “But there’s still food there.”
Patrick rolls his eyes. “I don’t feel very taken care of,” he mutters.
“Trust me babe,” Brendon assures him, “you couldn’t be in better hands.”
Patrick goes all soft on the edges, already looking healthier. “I know.”
Brendon feels like his heart might burst. “I love you so fucking much.”
“I love you too,” Patrick murmurs.
As far as sick days go, this one looks to be going pretty well.