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ghoulodont · 1 year ago

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β-Lactam

Getting sick on the road is a well known phenomenon in the touring world, but only a folktale for the newly summoned ghouls — up to this point. Dewdrop gets hit particularly hard by whatever illness the roadies are passing around, but the show must go on. Rain considers the nature of his relationship with his bandmate in light of subsequent events.

Relationship: Raindrop Characters: Dewdrop, Rain, Aether Words: 6846

Sickfic, Hurt/Comfort, Prequelle Era, Pre-relationship, warning for vomit and needles

Read below or on AO3

A plague is spreading among the production’s cast and crew.

For the more experienced members, it’s to be expected. Having that many people in close proximity for enough time is bound to encourage contagion, and they know from experience that it will. For many of the musicians — the ones who are freshly summoned from Hell, tailor-made to fill that role — it’s something they’ve only been warned about. Their ability to perform is the top priority, and they are expected to take care of themselves.

So illness prevention becomes part of their daily routine. Immune fortifiers and remedies of all kinds start showing up on the bus and at the venues, added to the hospitality rider, fetched by staff on errands, picked out themselves during their downtime.

Understandably, the vocalists are all extra concerned about how this situation might impact them. Copia keeps his distance from anyone he deems a potential disease vector, usually squirreling away to his dressing room before and after the show. Cumulus swears by a tea that purports throat soothing properties. Swiss eats cough drops nonstop, though it’s later determined that he just thinks they taste good.

Mountain hands out tiny bottles of vibrant yellow-orange juice one afternoon before the concert. The blurb on the label is packed with scientific-sounding words about vitamins and antioxidants. Rain reads the ingredients — he doesn’t recognize any other than lemon and ginger — and knocks his bottle back all at once like a shot of alcohol, as suggested. The back of his nose burns for the next two hours. Upon searching the internet he learns that “cayenne” is a type of pepper. Several other ghouls fall victim to this as well, excluding Dewdrop, who sneaks away with the bottle and passes it off to an unsuspecting roadie, and Aether, who drinks the juice but seems to genuinely enjoy the taste.

But, otherwise, it’s business as usual. As showtime approaches everyone focuses on the task at hand. They’re warmed up, soundchecked, costumed, ready to go.

And after the performance, the ghouls can relax again, for the time being. Most of them usually end up in the green room while the crew is tearing down, and tonight is no different. At some point they’ll all head to their dressing rooms and get ready to get back on the bus, and then the cycle will repeat. For now, they can revel in this brief low tide in their ebbing and flowing responsibilities.

It’s nearing the time that the party inevitably dies down when things go awry.

Dewdrop has been subdued since coming offstage. He’s always more reserved day-to-day than he is in front of a crowd, but his behavior tonight, by Rain’s assessment, is uncharacteristic. He had gone straight to a couch near the corner of the green room and barely interacted with anyone, even when Swiss pelted him with a grape from the catering table, something that on any other day would have warranted a ruthless counterattack.

At one point over the course of the evening he ventures away from his outpost to retrieve a bottle of water, but he brings it right back to where he had been sitting.

Later, out of nowhere, he drags himself up from the couch and staggers to the big commercial-grade plastic trash bin next to the door. He grabs the edge of it with enough horizontal momentum that it hits the wall with a hollow thunk before he leans his whole body over it and retches. This sudden series of actions makes everyone still in the green room pause. The sound of whatever was in his stomach — just water, presumably — hitting whatever else is in the trash can is stark in the now quiet space.

Rain is the first to react; he stands from his seat and promptly freezes in place. Aether is the first to actually get up and walk over towards the door. It snaps Rain out of his daze, and he follows behind.

Before they can get there, Dew is already on his way back to his spot on the couch. Aether recalibrates their trajectory to meet him there. Dew flops back onto the seat, his head tipped back against the top of the backrest, legs extended out in front of him, arms limp at his sides.

“What’s going on, you okay?” Aether stands over Dew, and Rain stands next to Aether. Dew doesn’t respond. His eyes are unfocused.

From this distance Dew is visibly shaking, his entire body inundated by a fine vibration that itself pulses in intensity, like a modulated wave.

“Hey,” Aether tries again, “you okay?”

Dew groans and puts his hands over his eyes. Then he jolts upright, the soles of his costume shoes squeaking against the laminate tile floor. He takes short, hitching breaths.

Aether immediately anticipates what is about to happen and drags over the trash bin. Dew leans over it, gripping the edge, and releases a tendril of saliva. He gags.

Swiss runs out of the room, hands over his ears.

The trash bin is so large compared to Dew’s seated form that it looks like he could fall into it and disappear. Rain finds a small plastic-lined wastebasket by one of the other seating areas and swaps it with the big bin. Dew relinquishes his grasp on its folded rim as Rain pulls it away. He relaxes somewhat, slumping forward with his elbows on his knees and the wastebasket between his ankles.

He heaves again, unproductive. Aether and Rain hover over him like if they look at him long enough the power of their concern could will him to be better somehow.

After a few more dry heaves, Aether prompts again, “What’s going on?”

Dew responds this time. “My throat hurts so much.”

“Your throat? Are you sick?” Aether puts the back of his hand against Dew’s forehead. Dew tries to lean away from him as he approaches, but his dodge is ineffective and Aether makes contact anyway. His gesture is so maternal, but as far as Rain knows, Aether is just as experienced with this kind of situation as he is, which is to say not at all.

“For how long?” Rain asks.

“Just today.” Dew pauses, amends his statement. “Just since the show.”

“Maybe he has what all the roadies had?” Aether wonders out loud.

"It hasn’t been this bad for anyone else, though, right?" Rain mentally tallies the casualties so far. It’s only been crew members, none of the musicians, and none of them have had to take any time off.

Aether's brow furrows. "Do you think he needs a doctor? We probably have enough time to get one here before bus call."

"Why are you asking him? I'm right here." Dew directs this comment to the wastebasket.

"Do you think you need a doctor?"

"No."

"And you're going to be better for the show tomorrow?"

"I was fine for the show tonight."

"Sure, but it seems like you're not fine now."

Rain isn’t sure whether Dew's tight-lipped expression is indicative of the nausea or the denial. Dew might not be sure himself, either.

"I think you should let a doctor look at you, at least, just in case," Rain suggests. He’s never seen Dew this sick before, or anyone else, for that matter, and it’s scaring him a little.

Dew actually always seems to be the most likely ghoul to throw up — repeatedly, even — when they're all hung over on a day off. He’s prone to motion sickness as well; Rain wasn’t there, but he’s been told it gets bad enough that on Dew’s first tour he had to swap bunks because the top one swayed too much whenever the bus took an exit on the highway. But he never really seemed bothered about any of those incidents. He certainly wasn’t trembling like a newborn fawn. So this feels different.

“Fine.”

Aether nods. “Okay, I’m going to go find someone who can help.” He briefly places his hand on Dew’s hunched shoulder before leaving.

—

Rain leans against a nearby table for a few minutes while Dew drools occasionally into the wastebasket. He’s stopped outright dry heaving over it at this point, but he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry to part with it. Then he suddenly moves to get up.

“I need to go shower.” Dew has to brace against the couch with his hands as he stands.

He sways in place as he rearranges his feet to avoid kicking over the wastebasket. Rain steadies him with a hand on his upper arm.

“Okay, yeah, let me walk you there.”

Dew is already walking toward the door. Rain keeps his hand on his arm and follows, letting him lead the way to his dressing room. At some point in the hallway Rain adjusts his steadying hand to hook around Dew’s waist instead. He isn’t supporting any of Dew’s weight, and only applies any pressure at all when the two of them start to veer from their intended bearing.

Dressing room situations varied between tour stops, depending on what the venue offered and what the management requested. Usually the ghouls ended up sharing them, in groups of two or three. The worst so far was actually when they had individual rooms — each room was so small that Rain could almost touch both sides at the same time if he extended his arms all the way. By the time they were all on the bus that night, there was at least one dent in the drywall that hadn’t been there before.

This time, Dew is sharing a dressing room with Aether. When they get there, it’s empty and quiet. Dew rifles through his bag for clothes and toiletries and heads for the ensuite bathroom, closing the painted steel door behind him.

Now Rain is alone in a dressing room that isn’t his. He checks the time on his phone. There’s still plenty of time before bus call. He should shower too. His shoes are glued to the worn low-pile carpet. He listens to the shower turning on in the bathroom.

Aether shows up a couple minutes later.

“Oh! Hey,” he greets, looking a little surprised to see Rain there. “I explained what happened and they’re calling a doctor to come out.”

Rain nods. “Here?”

“Yeah, and then hopefully he can be on the bus in time.”

Rain nods again, checks his phone. Aether stands there.

“You should go shower,” Aether offers.

“Yeah.” Rain doesn’t move.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he’s okay in there.”

This finally unglues Rain’s feet. He nods, thanks Aether, and heads for his own dressing room.

He ends up pacing around the room, and later up and down a segment of the hallway, while he waits an eternity for Swiss to finish showering. He takes his own shower as quickly as possible — normally he would be in there at least as long as Swiss was, if not longer — and finds himself drawn back to Dew and Aether’s dressing room when he’s done.

When he gets there, the door is propped open. Aether isn’t there, but Rain can hear the shower running. Dew is slouched in an armchair, curled up with his feet on the seat. He’s changed from his costume into jeans and a hoodie, and his hair is damp. As Rain steps through the door, he’s in the process of forcing down a minuscule sip of water. Dew looks up at him and offers what he thinks is supposed to be a polite smile but ends up more like a tight-lipped grimace.

“Are you feeling any better?” Rain leans against the makeup counter along one wall of the room.

Dew shrugs.

The two of them sit in relative silence for a few minutes, Rain tapping his fingers rhythmically on the laminate countertop and Dew fiddling with the lid of his plastic water bottle, before Dew leans over a strategically placed wastebasket — if Rain hadn’t walked him here himself he would have assumed Dew brought this one from the green room — and throws up the tiny mouthful of water from earlier. He sighs, quietly, turbulent air rushing out through his nose, and leans his head back against the chair.

Eventually a member of the venue staff arrives outside the room, knocking politely on the doorframe. She explains she’s here to escort Dew to where the doctor is set up. Rain hovers next to him as he stands, ready to steady him if he needs it.

The three of them zigzag through the backstage hallways. The trip isn’t far, but Dew is moving slowly, still wobbly. The staff member, seemingly stuck in a state of haste, has to stop and wait at each intersection for Dew and Rain to catch up.

Their journey ends at a door propped open by the tour manager. He waves them into a dressing room, the larger kind that might be used by an ensemble cast. It is devoid of everything but furniture, clearly not intended to be occupied tonight. There is a couch against one wall; two others are lined with makeup counters and mirrors. The doctor stands at one end of the counter, picking through a hefty bag of supplies.

They walk single file through the doorway, Dew first and then Rain. The doctor glances up at them through the mirror, then turns and introduces herself. She’s wearing inconspicuous, casual clothes, nothing that would explicitly indicate she’s a medical professional.

“Please have a seat.” She gestures toward the couch.

Dew settles onto one end of the couch, but doesn’t relax. He folds his arms loosely around himself. Rain considers his own seating options and decides to perch next to him on the couch’s padded arm in a pose somewhere between sitting and leaning.

At the counter, the doctor drapes a stethoscope around her neck and picks up a small collection of equipment.

“I’d like to start by checking your vitals,” she says.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” says the tour manager, taking a step toward the hallway while holding the door open. Rain realizes it’s a cue for him, that he is expected to leave as well.

He suddenly also realizes there was no real reason for him to have followed Dew here in the first place. The venue management had been considerate enough to find him a private room, and Rain had invaded that privacy without even thinking. He stands up from the couch arm, turning back towards Dew to tell him he’ll see him on the bus and —

Dew is looking back with his eyes wide and his shoulders tense. One of his arms is extended toward Rain from where it had been wrapped around his body, his hand resting limp on the couch in a noncommittal, minimal energy version of physically reaching out to him.

Dew has his mouth slightly open like he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t.

“Should I stay?” Rain finally asks.

“If you want to,” Dew counters, not ready to admit that he’s the one who wants it.

“I don’t mind.” Rain settles back down on the arm of the couch.

Dew looks away from him and deflates, compressing back in against himself.

The tour manager just nods and waves goodbye, then lets the door swing closed.

—

The doctor crosses the room from the counter to the couch and hands Dew a digital thermometer. “Hold this under your tongue, please.”

Dew complies, holding it in place with one hand. She clips a pulse oximeter on the other.

The shrill beep of the thermometer breaks the silence in the room. Dew removes it from his mouth and hands it back to the doctor without looking at it.

She takes it and reads the glowing screen. “You have a fever. Are you having body aches? Chills?” She reaches to collect the pulse oximeter as well.

Dew lifts his hand slightly so she can unclip it from his finger, the minor exertion causing it to tremor. He shakes his head. Rain thinks about how he looked when he was flopped on the green room couch and wonders if they have different definitions of those words.

The doctor checks the measurement, hums quietly, then places the device on the couch and picks up a blood pressure cuff. She wraps it around Dew’s upper arm and then squats next to him, donning her stethoscope. She takes his forearm and flips it so his hand rests supine on his knee.

The room is quiet except for the rush of air as she inflates the cuff, then lets it slowly deflate again. The sound of the velcro ripping apart when she unwraps it echoes in the still room. Dew tucks his relinquished arm back around himself. The doctor stands and removes the stethoscope from her ears and drapes it over her shoulders again. She replaces her other equipment in her bag.

When she returns, she sits down next to Dew on the couch, perched close to the edge so she can turn to face him.

“Can you tell me more about your symptoms? The sore throat started tonight, after your performance?”

Dew nods. “I felt fine during the show. But then it was like I noticed…” He pauses, considering, as if he’s trying to string together the events. “My throat hurt a lot and I tried to drink water and I threw up.”

“Your body is full of adrenaline when you’re performing. It masks your symptoms and gives you energy, and then when it wears off you suddenly feel worse.”

Rain nods at this. It makes sense. He’s accustomed to that feeling after every show — being hit by a sudden wave of exhaustion when the excitement of the situation finally falls away. It’s absolutely never been this dramatic before, for any of them.

“Have you been drinking water since then?”

“Trying to,” Dew answers. When she raises her eyebrows, he elaborates, “It keeps coming back up.”

The doctor nods. She holds out her hand toward Dew’s. “Can I see your hand for just a minute?”

Dew offers her the hand that’s closer to her, which because of the way he’s folding his arms is actually the one from the other side of his body. She takes it and gently pinches his skin, then presses on his fingernail and watches it change color.

“You don’t seem too dehydrated right now, but it’s something to watch out for.” She releases his hand and he tucks it back against his side.

“I need to look at the inside of your throat.” She picks up a tiny flashlight.

Dew unwraps his arms from around himself, resting them in his lap instead. He sits up a little straighter, tilts his head back slightly, and opens his mouth.

She shines the light into Dew’s mouth. Rain can’t see what she sees because Dew is facing away from him. Whatever it is, her face doesn’t reveal anything. She doesn’t look for very long. Seconds later, she clicks off the light and places it on the couch. Dew closes his mouth and drops his shoulders.

“I’d like to feel the outside of your neck.” She’s paused halfway though the motion of reaching out to touch him. Her hands are palm-up, fingers curled loosely, nonthreatening. The gesture reminds Rain of someone holding their hand out for a cat to sniff before petting it.

Dew nods, staring over her shoulder at nothing.

She presses her fingers into both sides of his neck where it connects to the underside of his jaw. She walks them forward from beneath his ears towards his chin. As she feels, she asks, “Is that sore?”

“A little.” His brow is creased slightly and his mouth is drawn into a straight line.

She lowers her hands to her lap. “Have you been coughing at all?”

Dew shakes his head.

“Still nauseous?”

He pauses, then nods.

“Alright.” She sits back slightly. “Based on your symptoms it sounds like you have strep throat, but I want to run a test to confirm. It takes about ten minutes, and if it comes back positive I’ll give you an antibiotic which should have you feeling better within a day or two and also prevent you from spreading this to anyone else. Regardless, I can give you something for your symptoms so you get through your performance tomorrow night.”

She pauses. Her unasked question hangs in the air — is that okay? She’s giving Dew a chance to say no, or request another option, or do anything other than drift through this situation like an unmoored boat.

“Okay.”

“Great.” She stands up from the couch and returns to her bag on the counter. As she comes back to the couch, she peels open the paper package of a sterile cotton swab. She sits back down next to Dew, facing him like before.

“I’m going to take a sample from your throat. I need you to open your mouth and stay as still as you can.”

Dew sits up and opens his mouth again. This time, he closes his eyes.

The doctor pulls the swab from its packaging and inserts it through his open mouth and all the way to the other side of his head, rubbing it against the back of his throat. He gags, but doesn’t close his mouth. He reflexively lifts one hand from his lap like he’s going to grab her arm; it hovers for a moment before he pulls it back down.

“I know.” She keeps rubbing.

Dew lets out a tiny sound, a round, open-mouthed “ah,” and squeezes his eyes tighter shut. The flush in his cheeks spreads.

“Done, I’m sorry for that.” She stands and returns to her supplies, holding the swab upright like a lit match.

Dew slouches forward. His eyes are still closed. He sniffs once, quietly.

Rain rubs his hand back and forth along Dew’s shoulder blade. He feels the tension in his muscles ease just a little under his touch. His breaths are slow and intentional.

Rain pulls back his hand when Dew leans back on the couch, pulling his feet up in front of him. The two of them watch the doctor performing some alchemical ritual with the swab, combining reagents and swirling them in a plastic tube. When it’s complete, she pulls a laptop from her bag and types on it, which is less interesting. Rain lets his eyes drift shut.

He opens them again when Dew speaks.

“I’m sorry for making you stay. You didn’t have to.” His voice is quiet. He’s curled up now, with his arms draped loosely around his knees, leaning one side of his body against the back of the couch so he faces Rain.

Dew, in fact, didn’t make Rain do anything. He didn’t even ask him to do anything, really. But Rain knows what he’s trying to say.

“It’s okay, I wanted to,” is how Rain decides to respond. He cringes inside at the implication. He did want to stay, but it feels creepy to say it outright like that, like he had been selfish to intrude on Dew’s vulnerable situation, even though Dew just claimed he had asked him to. They’re both talking about an imaginary interaction instead of what actually happened.

If Dew hadn’t stopped him like that when he went to leave, if he had wanted privacy, Rain would have understood. He probably would have gone back to his dressing room and paced around, or made himself busy doing something useless. He would have been worried, but he would rather be worried than make Dew uncomfortable.

And if Dew hadn’t stopped him despite actually wanting him to stay, hadn’t been able to ask for what he needed in even the most subtle, minimal way — it makes Rain’s chest ache. He imagines Dew sitting in this unfamiliar room being touched by a stranger, wishing he was there with him.

But Dew looks almost comfortable now, all things considered. He’s resting the side of his head against the back of the couch, eyes closed. His face is relaxed except for a single crease between his eyebrows. Rain is nearly overpowered by a sudden instinctive desire to reach out and touch him again, to feel his forehead like Aether did, to press his hand against his flushed cheek, to tuck a strand of mostly-dry hair behind his ear. But he doesn’t want to violate the trust Dew is putting in him by simply allowing him to be here. Instead, he counts Dew’s steady breaths.

—

Rain shifts his attention to the doctor when she closes her laptop and moves back to her makeshift alchemy lab. She barely glances at the test before she’s on her way back towards the couch.

She sits next to Dew again. He pivots so he’s facing forward, but leaves his legs tucked up in front of him.

“The test is positive for strep,” she explains, “which is treatable with antibiotics.”

Dew nods.

“Because of the vomiting I would recommend an antibiotic injection. Given your schedule, I think it’s the most reliable choice. The other option is pills, but if you can’t keep them down you won’t see any benefit.”

Dew is staring at the carpet somewhere near the middle of the room. He nods again, slowly, like he’s on autopilot.

“It’s just one dose and it will start working right away. I really do think it would be the best way to ensure you’re feeling better by tomorrow night.”

Dew glances at her and nods again, a little more present this time.

“Does that sound okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I can also give you a corticosteroid to help with the inflammation in your throat until the antibiotic starts working.”

“Okay.”

She nods. “I’ll be right back.”

She stands and crosses the room once again to the counter. She picks an assortment of sterile packages and medicine vials out of her bag. She unwraps empty syringes and plastic-capped needles.

Rain has gotten shots before — each of the ghouls had been vaccinated against earthly diseases soon after being summoned. He didn’t mind them. They hadn’t really hurt, though his arms were sore afterwards. The idea of something being injected into him makes his stomach turn, but he had made sure not to look when it was happening and the actual experience ended up being uneventful.

These syringes are significantly larger than any he’s seen before, though. He watches the doctor fill one of them at least two thirds of the way full in a single motion. It makes his stomach drop.

Dew, on the other hand, has never been squeamish about anything. Blood, gore, and other stuff like that doesn’t phase him whatsoever. He isn’t really averse to pain either. Rain wouldn’t expect needles to be an issue for him. Looking at him now, Rain can’t place the expression on his face. It’s not one he would have imagined.

Dew is watching the doctor closely. He looks exhausted, which is expected. His eyes are lidded and rimmed with dark circles. He still has that single crease between his eyebrows. He’s frowning, just barely, a slight deviation from his usual neutral expression that you might not notice if you didn’t know him. There’s something else in his face that, if Rain had to put a word to it, he would guess it was nervousness, or apprehension. It’s visible in the way he tracks the doctor’s every move despite his eyes clearly wanting to be closed. He seems to be carrying more tension than he can afford to right now.

The doctor has gone back to searching for something in her bag. “Okay,” she instructs, “can you lower your pants a couple inches and lie facing down on the couch for me please?”

Dew’s eyes widen just a bit, just for a moment. But he stands, unbuttons his jeans, and slides the waistband down slightly. Then he lowers himself back onto the couch.

He doesn't actually lie all the way down; his hips and legs are flat against the couch, but his head and shoulders are propped up with his elbows. Rain imagines he's ready to fling himself up from the couch and scuttle away. It’s at odds with how sluggish his movements have been since he came offstage tonight.

Dew turns his head to watch the doctor cross the room but looks down at the couch when she gets close. She squats next to the couch and places her supplies on the seat near his leg: two prepared syringes, two adhesive bandages, a few alcohol swab packets and some small gauze pads.

She pushes the edge of his hoodie up to expose the bare skin of his hip. She tears open the wrapper of an alcohol swab, saturating the air with its sharp smell.

“I’m going to start with the steroid.”

Dew nods without looking at her, plucking at a loose thread on the edge of the couch seat cushion. He flinches slightly when she wipes the back of one hip with alcohol. She picks up one of the syringes, pulls the cap off the needle.

Dew glances up at Rain with that same inscrutable expression — tired, apprehensive. He’s blushing, or maybe it’s just because he’s feverish. Rain smiles, tries his best to look reassuring. Dew’s flush deepens. He breaks away from the eye contact.

The doctor places one gloved hand on Dew’s sanitized hip. “Try to relax your leg as much as possible.” She taps her fingers against his skin a few times. Dew’s body is lean and wiry, but this is one of his softer places.

Dew wiggles his feet a bit to loosen the muscles in his legs.

“Good. Here we go.”

She sticks the needle in quickly like an animal striking its prey. Dew doesn’t react to this, but the sudden motion makes Rain flinch.

She presses down on the plunger of the syringe painstakingly slowly. Rain decides he can’t watch this part. He watches Dew’s face instead. His eyes are closed but he looks mostly the same as before. A muscle in his jaw flexes.

When the doctor withdraws the needle she immediately flips an attached plastic cover over it. She presses a folded square of gauze over the tiny puncture wound on Dew’s hip.

“Well done. One more.” She’s praising Dew for doing absolutely nothing, but Rain supposes that must be the point. He still looks like he’s considering in the back of his mind that he could get up and run away.

She removes the gauze and smooths a band-aid over the puncture. She selects another alcohol swab and unwraps it, renewing the lingering smell in the room.

“Relax,” she reminds him, rubbing his other hip with the swab.

She picks up the other syringe and removes the cap from the needle. This one seems bigger. Not the needle, but the contents of the syringe are greater. Rain is trying not to think too much about details like that.

She repeats the same procedure — hand on his hip, needle through his skin like a predator, slow pressure on the plunger. Rain looks away from it again.

Dew’s eyes are closed again, and his jaw is still tense. His fingers curl slightly against the flat surface of the couch seat cushion. He cranes his neck to look behind him at what the doctor is doing. The plunger has barely moved. He turns himself back around and lets his head hang forward between his shoulders. He pushes a slow breath out through his nose.

Rain watches Dew's hands close fully into fists.

Rain offers his hand to hold instead. He’s not sure if Dew would accept it. His understanding is that affectionate touch is a gray area for Dew. It’s more likely to be okay when it’s playful and unserious. And onstage, anything goes; it’s all a game. Rain would place hand holding firmly in mushy, lovey-dovey, serious territory, completely off limits. But his other supportive and even comforting touches tonight had been uncharacteristically tolerated, and it's not like anyone else is here to see them besides this doctor — who he's pretty sure they will never encounter again. Plus, it’s not necessarily romantic at all. He would do this for anyone, he tells himself.

Dew grasps his hand immediately, without looking up. He doesn't squeeze it tightly, but his grip is firm. Rain presses back with just as much force. He glances up at the doctor, unintentionally making eye contact. She looks away, back to her task, without saying anything. Rain looks back to his and Dew’s hands.

Dew is still looking down, motionless. It makes Rain think of the way a sick wild animal will shut down and hide from predators in some secluded place. Or, more broadly, the instinct of fight or flight. He already observed Dew’s desire to flee in his body language, and there’s clearly no fight in him right now. All that’s left for him to do is accept what’s happening.

Rain ventures a glance to the syringe again. It’s probably about halfway emptied. Which means half of what was in it is now deposited inside Dew’s flesh. He snaps his gaze away from it and tightens his grip on Dew’s hand — just sympathetically, he justifies, not because that makes him feel queasy.

Dew squeezes back a little tighter too.

“Keep breathing slowly,” the doctor encourages. “You’re doing great.”

This first comment makes Rain notice his breathing sped up just now, and he has to glance up at her to see if it was actually directed at him. It doesn’t seem to be — she’s looking at Dew — but he realizes that Dew’s breathing has been mirroring his. So maybe it was, in a roundabout way, an instruction for him. He focuses on setting a good example.

He counts eight measured breaths before it’s over.

“Good job,” the doctor says as she removes the needle. “You’re all done.”

Dew’s shoulders droop. Rain releases his hand. The doctor continues with the rest of the procedure from before — needle cover, gauze, band-aid. Then she gathers her discarded items and returns to the counter.

Dew rolls himself onto his side and gingerly sits up. He runs his hands over his face, pausing for a few seconds with both palms cupping his jaw, eyes unfocused. Then he stands and shimmies up his pants and fastens the button. Rain stands too, ready to support him if necessary.

The doctor is digging in her bag again.“You’ll be contagious for the next day or so, so try to avoid close contact as much as possible.” She returns to the ghouls with a small stack of disposable face masks and offers them to Dew. “You should wear a mask at least until your performance tomorrow.”

Dew nods, taking them and putting one on right there. The pastel yellow contrasts with his otherwise all-black outfit.

“Try to keep drinking fluids and get as much rest as you can. The steroid will give you a bit of a boost, so don’t overdo it.”

“Okay.”

“Okay? Anything else I can do for you?”

Dew shakes his head.

“Well, if you think of anything, you can have your tour manager get in contact with me. I won’t be able to see you again but I can answer questions or consult with any other providers you see."

Dew nods. He’s thumbing through the stack of masks like the world’s most boring flipbook.

“Alright, take care. Feel better.”

“Thank you.”

“Thanks,” Rain echoes.

—

With that, the two of them wordlessly split to their separate dressing rooms to retrieve their bags.

After packing, Rain backtracks down the hall to Dew’s dressing room instead of heading straight to the bus. He checks the time on his phone. He’s cutting it much closer than he would ever consider doing on any other day. Their schedule is usually strict — the shows are the top priority, of course, and everything surrounding them is carefully arranged maximize their success — but maybe illness would be an extenuating circumstance. Regardless, he’s already decided he won’t let Dew risk getting left behind alone. If the bus leaves without Dew, it will leave without Rain as well.

In his dressing room, Dew is haphazardly throwing items into his bag. He startles slightly when he notices Rain through the mirror, but goes right back to packing his luggage. When he’s done, the two of them head for the bus.

Thankfully, the bus is still there when they get outside, parked just past the back door of the venue. Dew wobbles on the first step of the steep staircase, and Rain steadies him with a hand on the middle of his back. They proceed up into the warmly lit front lounge.

Everyone else is already there, and so everyone’s eyes are on them as they get to the top of the stairs. Swiss is the first to greet them.

“Hey, look who made it!”

Dew glares at him. “Back off, I’m contagious.”

“I see how it is,” Swiss says, looking pointedly at Rain, who is still following Dew closely.

Dew tugs at the top of his mask like he’s going to pull it down. Swiss raises his hands in surrender.

Dew and Rain continue through the tight space of the lounge into the aisle between the two rows of bunks. Rain lets the door swing closed behind them. It’s quiet, and darker than the front lounge.

Dew hurls his bag at the closed curtains of his bunk. It ends up halfway on the mattress, halfway on the floor of the aisle. He nudges it with his foot, to no effect, wobbling as he tries to balance on one leg. He grips the platform of the middle bunk to steady himself and kicks at it again. It remains stubbornly on the ground. He crouches and shoves it all the way inside.

He groans quietly as he stands back up, one hand against his hip and the other clenched into a fist. The sound makes Rain pause where he’s stowing items in his own bunk. He watches Dew stand there, unmoving except for the heaving rise and fall of his chest.

Then Dew moves the hand on his hip to one belt loop of his jeans and yanks the waistband down slightly. He hitches up the hem of his hoodie with the other hand, exposing the band-aid there from earlier. He cranes his neck so he can look at it. Rain isn’t sure what Dew was expecting to see, but it’s just a plain, unmarred band-aid, looking like it could be covering up nothing at all.

Dew prods at the flesh of his hip with one finger, pressing into a spot an inch above the band-aid. Facing away, masked, head tucked behind his shoulder, it’s the only part of him Rain can see.

Rain isn’t sure what comes over him, but this image of Dew metaphorically licking his wounds, with his frustration simmering over, pulls at his heart. He reaches out and places his hand over the band-aid.

Dew’s sharp inhale hisses through his teeth.

“Sorry.” Rain snatches his hand back.

“It’s okay. It actually feels nice. Your hands are cold.”

Rain lays his fingers over the spot again, touching as lightly as possible. Dew exhales, almost a sigh.

“Does it hurt?”

“No, it’s okay,” he answers, too quickly, a question Rain wasn’t asking. “But yeah, more than I expected. Feels like I pulled a muscle.”

Dew turns around so they’re facing each other, but doesn’t make eye contact. Instead he looks down at the hem of Rain’s shirt, pinches at it, worries it between his fingers, not actually touching him but bridging an indirect connection between their bodies.

Rain lets his hand fall away when Dew moves, but puts them back, both of them this time, on Dew’s hips. He strokes his fingers up to his waist under his shirt, then back down again. The skin there is so warm.

“It’s not that bad. Everything is just, a lot. Right now.” Dew’s voice is so small. “My brain is frying.”

It sort of is, in a literal way. Dew leans forward and rests his forehead against Rain’s shoulder. Rain can feel the heat radiating through his shirt.

“And my throat really fucking hurts and now my ass hurts too and I still feel like I’m going to throw up everywhere.”

Rain thinks his chest might crack open and swallow him up.

“Oh,” is what he manages to say to express this feeling. “Can I get you something? Water? Tea, maybe?” He thinks. “An ice pack?”

Dew chuckles, or maybe scoffs.

“I don’t know,” Rain backpedals. “I’ll get you anything on this bus. Or I’ll make the driver stop somewhere before we get on the highway if you want.”

“I mostly just want to sleep right now.”

“Okay, well, text me if you need anything.”

Dew pulls back from his shoulder to look up at him. He’s smiling; the mask is covering his mouth but Rain can tell by the way his cheeks are raised near the corners of his eyes.

“Maybe an ice pack would be nice.”

#ghost band fanfic #raindrop ghost #fic i wrote #sorry this is an old fic again but i just need it on my blog #i almost made one single-word edit but i kept it as is #and did i change my fic posting format again? yes i did

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