#fics: julieatp

[fancifulwhump]

so, the bad news is, i’ve fallen completely in love with a show about a band full of ghost boys??  julie and the phantoms is such a fun show  ---  the characters are incredible, the music is brilliant, and it has some unexpected whumpy gem moments, too!!   

this idea has been a worm in my brain since the first episode   ;   basically, the band has a habit of eating questionable food from alleys and out of the back of trucks, which comes back to bite them big time.    i figured, there’s no way that’s the first time they’ve ever gotten food poisoning... so, this fic was born.   i really had to get it out of my system, y’all.

if anyone wants more j.atp whump content in the future, i’ll happily provide!

a case of food poisoning  :  reggie, alex, luke, and bobby  /  j.atp   ;    6000+ words     ( nausea, vomiting, emeto )

Things don’t start feeling weird — for Reggie, at least — until they’re all piled into Bobby’s beat-up van, on their way back from a gig.

Those tacos aren’t sitting right. That’s all he can think, because they really haven’t settled since they went down. It’s been an hour since the four of them crowded around that alleyway food truck, shelling out a fraction of their latest pay for the nearest thing that could be called dinner. No one’s accusing street food of being gourmet... but for four kids living on band wages, plus what little Bobby and Alex made from their part-time jobs, it’s a godsend. Cheap, tasty, and usually not poisonous. Who could ask for anything more?

Tacos have always been Reggie’s favorite... but as the van rattles down the road, jostling its occupants with every pothole, he’s starting to regret going in for that second helping. Or the third.

Or, let’s be honest, the fourth. The fourth might’ve done him in.

Still, he shouldn’t be feeling like this. His friends tease him all the time — for such a skinny guy, Reggie can finish a whole pizza by himself, and put away a steak in under five minutes. It’s a talent, really. He’s always been able to eat without having to worry about the consequences — eating itself is its own pleasure, when dinners at home consist of “whatever’s left over” way too frequently. He doesn’t really... get full.

The longer the tacos sit inside of him, though, the heavier he feels. His stomach is tight against his belt, swelling out slightly beneath his dark t-shirt. If unbuttoning his pants were an option, he’d probably do it, just to have some room to breathe. Doing it here isn’t an option, though — not with Luke pressed up next to him, and Bobby and Alex in the front seats. He’d elbow his best friend in the face if he tried, and probably be noticed before then.

Reggie’s just got to grin and bear it... at least, until they get back to the studio.

“Great work tonight, boys,” Luke declares, leaning towards the front of the van. An arm suddenly loops around Reggie’s shoulders. The impact jars him, sending his stomach into a split-second free fall. If Luke notices the uncharacteristic tension in Reggie’s shoulders, he doesn’t let on, doesn’t even look at him. “I can hear record agents knocking on our door already!”

“You mean, the door to Bobby’s garage, where we all basically live?” Alex replies. “Wow, yeah. They’re going to be impressed.”

“Who gave them our address?” Bobby adds from behind the wheel. “They better not show up on Tuesday, my mom hosts crochet club.”

Luke’s shoulders shake; his smile is so bright, it’s practically luminescent in the dark. Reggie gets sucked into it for a moment before catching himself staring. With a thick swallow, he turns his head away. How can Luke have so much energy, when Reggie feels like he’s been hung out to dry? (Maybe off the back of a pick-up truck, and run over a few times for good measure.)

But silence isn’t like him, and of course Luke notices. He sends an elbow into his ribs — not enough to hurt, but an unpleasant gurgle ripples through his full stomach anyways. Reggie can’t help the arm that comes up to cradle his gut, or the way he hunches over, despite that only making the pressure worse. Anyone looking at him could tell something’s off — and with that realization, can’t worry them, can’t be a downer — he turns with a bright, forced grin.

“Just thinking about how on fire we were! Did you see those babes at the front table? They were checking me out the entire show, I’m telling you.”

Luke chuckles. That’s more like him, and it pushes any suspicion firmly off his shoulders. Able to breathe a sigh of relief, Reggie slowly eases himself back. It does feel a little better to be sitting — and looks less weird, too, even when a hand comes up to massage his stomach.

Yeah, he’s definitely bloated. His gut gurgles uncomfortably beneath his palm, loud enough to fill the rest of the car — but with the radio blasting, it’s mostly drowned out.  The longer he sits back, the more the pressure in his stomach increases. He’s gone from feeling full to swollen. Even as he tries to massage the discomfort out, the heavy feeling only gets worse.

They hit another pothole, jostling the car. Reggie lurches forwards. Unwillingly, a loud burp slips past his lips.

“Dude,” Luke exclaims, smacking him on the back.

“Really, Reggie? In my car?” says Bobby from the front.

Blindsided, Reggie shrinks back in his seat, pressing a fist to his lips. His face feels hot. Actually, every part of him feels hot; suddenly, his trademark leather jacket is heavy, oppressive instead of familiar. His t-shirt clings to his skin — when did he start sweating? — and all the added sensation does absolutely nothing to soothe his swollen stomach. There’s no reason to be embarrassed with his friends, his band, but…

Talk about not sitting right. That burp came out of nowhere, taking him from full to queasy.

“Sorry,” Reggie mutters, too low for anyone else to hear. One hand comes up to cup his stomach again — gently this time, just in case. His stomach flips, and he can’t help wincing. It’s useless to put up any mask, no more pretense that he’s feeling fine… anyone who looks his way could definitely tell something’s up.

Thankfully, his friends aren’t looking. Bobby’s focused on the road, while Luke’s busy chattering to the front seats. Alex’s eyes are closed, forehead pressed against the glass window; no matter how the van rattles, it doesn’t jar him. Reggie admires his fortitude, because every time they hit a pothole, his stomach leaps into his throat.

Maybe… maybe something was wrong with those tacos. The thought occurs to him like a revelation — one of those awful ones you don’t really want to consider, so you put off ‘til the last minute, like we have a pop quiz in calculus today, or that mole probably isn’t normal. There’s just no way all this churning in his gut is just from indigestion, though. Unease nags at him, the heady flavor of the tacos still lingering in his mouth. They haven’t ever tasted like that before.

To be fair, it’s street food. What do you expect? Of course it’s going to taste a little gnarly.

But the tacos — just thinking of them makes his stomach lurch. A low gurgle ripples through his core, and Reggie hunches in on himself, both arms around his stomach. By turning towards the window, he’s able to create a barrier between himself and the rest of the car. No one needs to see the way he’s sweating, or clutching his belly like it’s on fire. No one needs to worry about him.

Another burp forces its way up his throat. Reggie swallows it back, leaning his head against the cool glass window, and just tries to rest.

It’s no use. The longer he puts it off, the more the nausea grows. His stomach does cartwheels with every bump in the road. There are a few scary moments where he’s sure he’ll have to shout for Bobby to pull over… but they pass, and Reggie is left a little paler than before, breathing a little heavier.

By the time they pull into Bobby’s driveway, he could almost cry with relief.

Luke is the first one out, smacking Reggie’s shoulder again on the way out the door. Alex follows at a more sedate pace; his energy always lags late at night, but something about the way he’s moving seems weird. Off somehow… careful. Reggie’s so focused on watching Alex’s stiff descent from the car, that he doesn’t even realize he hasn’t moved at all… until a sudden rap on the window startled him.

Bobby’s peering in at him through the dirty glass. Sheepish, Reggie opens the door, and slides out of the van.

As soon as he’s standing, his stomach protests. A wave of nausea rolls through him, serenaded by another angry gurgle. There’s no missing this one, and no distraction from it. Reggie slumps against the van door with a breathless huff; immediately, Bobby’s at his side, gripping his forearm to keep him upright.

“Whoa, dude — you look awful.”

“Thanks, Bobby,” Reggie grits out. “You’re gorgeous as ever.”

Actually, Bobby looks… serious. Dead serious, even more than usual. His eyes are pitch black, taking in Reggie from head to toe; when his brows furrow, he looks worried, but not surprised.

“Don’t tell me,” he says. “It’s your stomach?”

If Reggie opens his mouth, he seriously might hurl; his only reply is a stiff nod.

“Shit.” Bobby drags a hand through his hair, then slams it against the driver’s window. Reggie watches, with a distant sort of fascination, as he walks a full circle around the side of the car, shaking his head. “I knew something was up. Those tacos tasted weird from the start.”

“Maybe we should’ve listened to Luke and gone with street dogs.” Reggie lurches, a sudden hiccup surprising him: hastily, he presses a hand over his mouth, avoiding Bobby’s gaze.

“Alex’s stomach was grumbling like crazy in the car — I could hear it over the music. Over Luke.” When Bobby looks back, his lips are pressed in a grim line. “And I’m not feeling so hot either, man.”

“Great,” mutters Reggie, shaking his head. “Just fantastic.”

Figures, they’d all get hit with something gnarly at the same time — Sunset Curve is a brotherhood, after all. Even if that means puking their guts out in the same tiny garage bathroom —

Well, okay, Bobby lives here. He’s got a whole house, and a bathroom all to himself. Lucky dude.

Reggie doesn’t realize he’s started swaying until Bobby’s suddenly right beside him, instead of a few feet away. This close, Reggie can tell his friend’s a shade paler than normal… but it would be easy to write off, with how concerned Bobby looks. Concerned over what? Over him? Reggie tries to straighten up, but a sudden cramp of his stomach convinces him that’s not a good idea.

“Come on, man,” Bobby says quietly. “Let’s get inside. You need to lie down or something.”

“I need to —“ Reggie cuts himself off with a deep, queasy belch. A fist flies to his mouth automatically; he can’t help moaning. “Shit. Sorry, that’s — gross. I feel really gross. Really weird, Bobby.”

“I know, man.” Bobby tucks an arm around his shoulders; Reggie’s grateful, because suddenly, he’s not sure he could walk on his own. As he slumps into his bandmate, Bobby takes on most of his weight without even a murmur. “I’ve got you. Come on.”

They make it into the garage without incident. It’s no surprise to find Luke and Alex already settled in — as settled as Luke can get after a show, anyways. He rides the adrenaline of a great show until the very end, and can never rest until it’s all burnt out. Usually this means finding him passed out somewhere that isn’t the air mattress, and waking up with a crick in his back the next morning… but Luke is Luke, and he never changes.

Alex is curled up on the couch, hugging a pillow; his head lolls, distant gaze focused on a crack in the wall. Luke, on the other hand, is a ball of energy. He hops around the studio on the balls of his feet, deftly avoiding stray wires and lumps in the carpet. He’s got his songbook in one hand, and a guitar pick in the other. 

“That riff in the middle of Get Lost — where’d you even come up with that, Bobby, it was genius! And, and Alex, when the rhythm picked up —“

“I thought I was a little off in the first number.” Even Alex’s voice sounds listless.

“No, man, you were great.” Luke pauses just long enough to rub a hand over his face, bouncing on his heels like a boxer in the ring. When he drags his hand back through his hair, Reggie notices a sheen of sweat on his brow. The garage is actually pretty chilly in mid-January; there’s no good excuse.

Bobby leads him over to the couch, and Reggie practically collapses onto it. When Alex turns, his dull eyes spark to life with alarm. “God, Reg,” he hisses, immediately pressing a hand to his clammy forehead. “You look like a wreck!”

“We’ve got a problem,” Bobby tells him. 

Alex meets his gaze, and understanding dawns. His face falls, eyes going wide.

Reggie can only contribute a hiccup. 

“Oh, come on,” Alex mutters, pulling his pillow tighter against his stomach. “We had to get food out of a shady cart, couldn’t just stop at a diner or something…”

“The cart was, like, right there.”

“Yeah, sitting there suspiciously!”

A loud, long gurgle emanates from Alex’s side of the couch — yeah, okay, Reggie definitely heard that one. He hunches forward, grimacing; whatever color the revelation leant to his face, it just as quickly drains away.

“Boys,” says Luke, suddenly sounding uneasy. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“There’s no point blaming anyone,” Reggie insists, looking between Alex and Bobby. “Except the guy who sold us the tacos, right?”

“I don’t think we can sue, Reg,” says Bobby.

“He shouldn’t be in business selling stuff that’s literally poisoning people,” insists Alex, burying his face in both hands. “We can definitely report him. That’s got to be an option, right?”

“Oh, sure. If we all make it through the night.”

“You guys…” Luke cuts in again, and there’s a tremor to his voice. 

Finally, Reggie looks up — just in time to see the last bit of color drain from Luke’s cheeks. He’s left chalk-white, a stricken look on his face, caught somewhere between uncertainty and fear. Slowly, a hand drifts to his stomach. “Um,” he says, and sways a little. “You guys don’t —“

He doesn’t get the chance to finish. An indescribable sound bursts out of him  —  less a gag, more like choking on his own stomach. Luke lurches forward, a hand clamped to his mouth.

“Shit,” Bobby exclaims, springing to his feet. “Oh, shit!”

Luke stumbles back, waving Bobby off with one hand. The other remains clasped against his lips, holding whatever it can back; for a moment, Luke just sways, eyes squeezing shut as his stomach continues to moan and roil. Each breath comes heavy through his nose; each exhale is perilous. When he finally straightens back up, he’s gone completely colorless, a sheen of sweat on his brow.

“Ah, man,” he mutters, trembling.

Alex is on his feet now too, and takes a cautious step forward. “Luke,” he says softly. “You okay?”

“I was… a minute ago, I was —“ Luke cuts himself off, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth again. He swallows something back, then shakes his head. “I’m okay. Gonna be okay.”

Somehow, this isn’t convincing. Alex hesitates, arm still outstretched. “Are you sure?”

Luke opens his mouth to reply; instead, he lurches forward with a strangled noise, and a rush of vomit spills down his shirt.

“Shit!” Bobby exclaims again, emphasizing each syllable.

Luke’s last wave of energy hits him all at once. Suddenly, he’s sprinting; he clears the coffee table like a track-and-fielder in the Olympics, leaps clean over stacks of boxes and duffle bags, before vanishing into the bathroom. The door slams shut being him.

This doesn’t matter; the walls are like paper here. They can still hear the gagging, the cursing, the whimpers — even without the privilege of seeing it.

“Well,” Alex says, glancing between his remaining bandmates with a grim smile. “Looks like we’re in for a fun night.”

From inside the bathroom, a long moan agrees with him.

----------

It’s around midnight by the time Reggie finally loses his dinner. By then, Bobby has retreated to the privacy of his house. Luke is firmly camped out in the bathroom, with no signs of dragging himself out any time soon. Reggie ends up stumbling outside, on his hands and knees in the patch of dirt behind the old garage building; it’s hardly the classiest place to do it, but he can’t just march up to Bobby’s front door, push past his parents, and hurl all over their new porcelain flooring.

Alex lingers nearby, shivering in the chilly night air. He rubs Reggie’s back through the worst of it, muttering the same soothing platitudes all moms like to whip out when their kids are sick; Reggie murmurs something along those lines around a mouthful of acid, and isn’t surprised when Alex cuffs him in the head.

“If I’m your mom, you were an accident.”

Reggie snorts, scrubbing tear-stained cheeks with his flannel’s sleeve. “Pretty sure I actually was.”

Probably too dark, but Alex doesn’t say so; he just helps Reggie stand, a reassuringly steady presence when Reggie can barely find his own feet. Together, they make their way back inside the garage. From the bathroom, Luke’s suffering is still ringing out in vivid technicolor — Reggie’s learned curses tonight his dad doesn’t even know. Alex’s worried gaze flickers across the studio as another moan rings out; he lowers Reggie onto the couch, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze, before pulling away.

“I gotta go check on Luke.”

Reggie tracks his friend’s movements across the garage, not missing the way Alex stumbles across his own feet. Now that he’s not supporting anyone else’s weight, it’s obvious what a task it is to carry his own. He’s ghost pale, still shivering despite having come in from the cold, half-shrunken into his baggy hoodie. His brows are drawn tight together, the way they tend to when he’s fighting off a wave of worry… but it’s clearly more than that, given the shadow of queasiness haunting his face. He looks like he’s about to fall over… and if he does, he’s screwed, because Reggie doesn’t have the strength to go over there and pick him up.

“You need to rest, Alex,” he says, uncharacteristically solemn.

Alex glances back at him; there’s no life in his dull eyes, no gleam of fondness or frustration. He only looks exhausted.

“I don’t think any of us are getting much rest tonight,” he replies. When his lips twist, it can barely be called a smile. “Try to get some yourself, Reg. It’ll help.”

To his credit, Reggie tries. He leans back against the couch, letting his eyes drift shut. A low knock rings out, followed by Luke’s answering moan; Alex cracks the door open and mutters something too low for Reggie to hear. There’s quiet for a moment, then the sound of another gag. The bathroom door clicks shut; Reggie doesn’t have the energy to look up to see whether Alex is in or out.

His own stomach, at the very least, doesn’t care. It gives a sudden twist, and a low snarling noise rings out; Reggie can feel it, like his stomach’s tying itself in knots inside of him, just expecting him to deal with it. The pain is another thing — probably the worst thing, if the nausea wasn’t so overwhelming. It comes in waves, but when it comes — well —

He’s left doubled in on himself, breath coming in short gasps as he clutches his stomach with both hands. It’s all he can do to breathe; each cramp spasms through him, making his body distort and gut groan with fury. Reggie groans too, from the agony of it all — and the realization that, even having just ditched the remains of the tacos outside, they're not finished with him yet.

What could he have left to throw up? Jesus, it felt like he was coughing up his soul out there.

“I’m okay, I can walk on my own — geez, Alex, really. Don’t…”

“You think I want to get close to you? You smell like something died.”

Luke’s voice is hoarser than the time he blew it out practicing for the school talent show, but he manages a chuckle anyway. “So you wouldn’t kiss me if I asked?”

Alex snorts too. “Not even if you paid me.”

Reggie can’t see them, but he can imagine Luke’s careful, wobbling steps — the way he holds himself up by stubbornness alone, one arm still looped around his stomach. Alex lingers at his side the way he always does, ready to help the second it’s needed… only when the chair springs creak, and Luke lets out a low sigh, does Alex finally let himself sit down as well.

“That took everything outta me,” Luke mutters, voice muffled by the hands pressed to his face, “Literally. I feel dizzy, man.”

“Drink some water.” 

“No way, my stomach…”

“Luke, you need to. You just hurled up all the water in your body.”

“It’s not gonna stay down.”

“Then it comes up. At least it’s something.”

There’s a long moment of silence before a water bottle crackles in Luke’s unsteady grip. He takes a few shallow gulps before setting it aside; leaning his head back, he brings one hand to his stomach, where it hovers uncertainly for a moment. “Okay,” he finally says, and gives a weak hiccup. “I think — I think we’re good.”

“Okay.” Alex heaves a heavy sigh, and settles back, finally. 

For a little while, there’s only silence. Luke’s allowed his eyes to shut, while Alex has slumped against the side of the chair, head pillowed on his arm. They’re all drifting. Every few minutes, the quiet will be broken by someone’s stomach gurgling, or an uncomfortable huff, but for the most part… no one dares break the tenuous peace that’s settled over the garage.

At least, not until his stomach seizes up with another cramp, and Reggie can’t help whimpering.

Alex stirs. His eyes are glassy, face colorless. “Reg?” he mutters. “What’s — what’s wrong?”

Except it’s far beyond Reggie’s ability to answer at this point; the pain is too great to even try. He just curls in on himself, clawing at his stomach with both hands as if that alone can stop the pain. It convulses once, and he sees red; his entire body is on fire, burning him up from the inside out, and he can’t take it anymore, he really can’t…

“Hurts,” he gasps, and a moan follows when another cramp rips through him. “Hurts so bad…”

Alex stares at him for a long moment, as if he can’t comprehend what he’s seeing. At what point it sets in, it's impossible to say… but suddenly he’s pushing himself up on unsteady legs, gripping the side of the chair for balance.

Reggie’s eyes widen at the way he sways. For half a second, his own pain is forgotten. “Alex, you —“

Alex just waves him off. Instead of stumbling towards Reggie, he turns on his heel — making his way back, instead, to the mini-fridge plugged in at the back of the room. Another cramp momentarily blinds Reggie, forcing him to curl back in on himself. He can’t follow Alex’s journey, or even worry whether he’ll make it there in one piece. By the time the pain grows dull again, Alex is shuffling back towards him, a fresh water bottle in hand.

“Dude,” Reggie groans. “I can’t. I’ll die.”

“You have to, Reg.” Alex’s voice is small, between labored breaths. “There’s nothing — nothing in your stomach. It’ll help the pain.”

“You don’t know that, it could make it worse —“

“Reggie.” Alex is right by his side now, bent low to look at him… and his eyes are gentle. Soft in that classic Alex way, the trust me way, the it’s going to be okay, I promise way. He’s always the same — always means so well — and he’d do anything for anybody else, if it just meant they didn’t have to suffer. 

Forget mom; sometimes, Reggie looks at Alex and thinks, “Yeah, this is what a big brother’s supposed to be.” Of course, Alex would know. He has a little sister he’s not even allowed to see anymore, not since his parents kicked him out. That’s got to kill him every day... Reggie can’t even imagine.

One thing’s for sure: he trusts Alex more than anyone else in the world (except the rest of the band).

He’d trust him with his life.

And, as Reggie takes the water bottle with shaking hands, he feels like he’s doing exactly that.

One sip goes down, then another — and he’s so thirsty that Alex has to gently guide the bottle away from his lips after the fourth gulp, reminding him not to overdo it. Reggie answers with a sick burp, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth. For a moment they wait, anticipation heavy as a curtain over them both… but nothing happens. The water stays down, and by some miracle, Reggie’s stomach doesn’t cramp up again.

He’s too caught up in his own relief. Reggie doesn’t even notice Alex making his way back across the room — until a sudden noise, a wet gurgle, jars his attention up. 

Alex is braced against the ladder leading up to the loft; he’s stopped there, because he can’t take another step. Head bent, his entire body shudders with a suppressed gag; as he chokes on it, the muscles in his arm strain with the force of holding him up. Something gurgles in his throat again, and he lurches forward, nearly hitting his knees on the concrete floor.

“Oh, man,” Reggie mutters, right before Alex loses it.

All over the floor.

Bobby’s gonna kill them, if the food poisoning doesn’t first.

--------------------

They’re all sick, and they’re tired, and then they’re sick again… the cycle becomes predictable after a while. Reggie can’t say how many hours pass, or exactly how many times he has to sprint for the bathroom — only that he’s exhausted by the time dawn begins to break through the garage windows. 

Maybe Reggie dozes for a while... it’s hard to tell. Getting any rest is its own fever dream, when his stomach’s in knots, sending bolts of pain shooting through him every few minutes. Distantly, he hears himself groaning, feels his arms wrap around his own stomach tighter, but he’s too exhausted to care.

He does feel it when another body settles in beside him — feels it clear as day, when a pressure against his spine forces him to ease back, and a set of hands pawing at his middle breaks his vice grip.

“Easy, Reg,” a very familiar voice murmurs, just over his shoulder. “Try to relax a bit.”

“Hurts...” Reggie manages, before another brutal cramp ricochets through his core, sending him curling in on himself all over again. His companion won’t have it, though. They force him to settle, easing him back against their shoulder... and the next thing Reggie knows, there’s a hand on his stomach, pressing into the worst of the pain.

At first, he groans; then, he sighs. It feels good, better than he dared hope for — finally, pressure against the worst cramps, easing them out before they can ripple through him completely. His stomach gives a wet, angry growl, and he can’t help whimpering as it turns over on itself... but the person at his back hushes him. A hand runs through his sweat-damp hair, trimmed fingernails grazing his scalp, and Reggie’s brain almost whites out at how good the tiny bit of comfort feels.

“You need your strength, okay? So you’ve gotta rest.” A pause, and then, from a distance, “He’s really getting hit hard, guys. I think he might have a fever, too.”

“He ate more than us,” someone else says.

“Man, he looks rough...” That sympathetic tone is definitely Luke.

When he forces his eyes open, after what seems like ages, Reggie finds himself surrounded by familiar faces. Their assessment isn’t really fair — none of the boys are looking great tonight. Luke, curled up on the floor, has slumped against the beanbag chair rather than sitting in it. Wisely, he’s lost his ruined shirt; now he sits hunched forward, both arms around his churning stomach. Every now and then, he’ll wince, and breathe out slowly; when his shoulders jolt with a spare hiccup, he presses his lips together until they turn white. Alex, having commandeered the other chair, looks completely washed out. There’s no color in his face, gone gray like sour milk; he’s got a bucket in his lap, wrapped tightly around it, and though he hiccups every so often, doesn’t seem like he’s had to use it. It takes Reggie a moment to realize that whoever’s got his head cradled in their lap smells like cheap mall cologne, and that the hands are calloused in the exact same places Bobby’s are. A low gurgle emanates from close to his ear, drawing his gaze up. Bobby wears a grimace of discomfort, his face nearly as pale as Alex’s... but when he notices Reggie coherent, he looks down, and smiles.

“Hey, man. How you feeling?”

“N- never better.” Reggie tries to return the gesture, but a curdle of his stomach eagerly contradicts him. 

“You’re gonna be fine, okay?” Bobby’s hand runs through his hair again; Reggie’s eyes flutter without his consent. “We've just got to get through the worst of it.”

“Everybody’s sick…” As his brows slowly draw together, Reggie’s attention flickers around the rest of the group. “How’re you guys doing? Alex…”

Alex shakes his head, muffling a hiccup into his fist. “I’m fine, Reg. Don’t even worry.”

“Yeah, we’re breezing through this.” Luke tried to offer him an “ok” gesture — but another cramp sends him leaning back against the chair, one hand pressing hard against his stomach. His face contorts in pain, and Reggie has to turn away, burying his face against Bobby’s leg.

It takes him a moment to find any kind of humor in this situation at all… but, being Reggie, that’s just his way. His shoulders shake with a weak chuckle. “Guess this is… the last time we go for street tacos, huh?”

Alex groans. “Not likely. I’m pretty sure we’re gonna keep eating street food until we make it big, or they literally kill us.”

Reggie scoffs. “Food poisoning’s not gonna take us out.”

“Really? Cause I feel like I’m dying.”

“If we were dying, trust me —“ Luke’s stomach gurgles, tensing his entire body up. “We’d know.”

Even something as simple as talking drains him. Reggie lets his eyes drift shut again, relishing the warmth of Bobby’s lap, and the solidness of his presence. It’s great to have Bobby back. Out of all of them, he’s clearly been hit the lightest… thank god someone’s still standing, otherwise they all might really be down for the count.

When his stomach gurgles again, Reggie tenses up. He jolts with a hiccup, then a tiny moan. As his hands curl into fists, ragged fingernails dig into his palms; he relishes the small amount of pain as a distraction from the overwhelming lion’s share.

“My stomach hurts so bad,” he murmurs. Bobby continues to stroke his head, even as Reggie goes progressively more tense. With his next exhale, a splash of something acidic rushes up his throat. He lurches, and tries to swallow it — but it’s in his nose, he can’t breathe, and the next shudder only brings more of it up. A hand clamps over his mouth as he scrambles into a sitting position, but he only makes it halfway. Utterly drained, he collapses sideways once again, falling in Bobby’s lap as his mouth floods with sick.

There’s only time for Bobby to direct him forward. Reggie lurches over his knees, vomit already spilling past his lips. Rather than hit the floor — or worse, Bobby’s shoes — the bucket is there waiting for him. 

As soon as Reggie gets a hold on the bucket, he doubles forward, practically wrapping himself around it. It rips through every muscle, every nerve. Mouthfuls of acid and bile are forced up with every heave, from the deepest part of his stomach. Reggie shudders. He belches up a splash of something nasty, enduring a spare gag as it ripples through him. When he’s finally able to catch his breath, he knows, just knows, every eye is on him.

“I hate this,” he pants, slowly lifting his head. “This is literally — huUurp — the worst.”

“That sure was,” Luke mutters; based on his offended yelp a second later, someone probably threw a water bottle at him.

“You’re gonna be fine,” Bobby says again, massaging gentle circles into his back. Alex’s calloused band sweeps across his forehead, brushing back Reggie’s unruly hair. Sweat plasters raven strands to his forehead, but with the gentle pressure of his friend’s hand, a bit of the pain goes with it.

“Yeah,” Alex says after a moment. “He’s definitely got a fever. Should we… be concerned?”

“I don’t know.” Bobby’s voice is hoarse, though that could be from worry or a night spent hurling his guts up — hard to say. “He was keeping water down for a little while, but… if he gets any worse, we might have to take him to the —“

“No hospital!”

It’s the most energy Reggie has had all night, and just about scares the hell out of his friends. His hand suddenly lashes up to grip Bobby’s shoulder in a vice grip; when he lifts his head, his eyes are very wide, very earnest. “Hospital isn’t gonna help. It… costs too much money.”

His parents are already fighting over the bills 24/7 — fighting over everything, fighting over him. The last thing Reggie needs it to give them a reason. He won’t do that, he won’t —

“No hospital,” he says again, and Alex hastily nods.

“Okay, Reg. You got it. No hospitals.”

He’s not sure whether to believe them, when he catches the wary glance Bobby and Alex exchange over his head… but Reggie is eager to chase away the horrible, anxious feeling, in exchange for the warm comfort of moments before. If he could just wrap himself up in that, instead of the thought of his parents screaming at each other over his hospital bed…

Yeah.

He’d like that a lot.

Just… safety, warmth, and quiet.

And maybe some water to wash this taste out of his mouth.

Alex scrambles to oblige him as soon as he asks. Reggie takes a swig, swishes it around in his mouth, and tentatively swallows it. The water settles — for now — which is the best he can ask for.

“I don’t want to be sick again,” he admits quietly, after a long moment of simply… laying there, staring back and forth.

Luke chuckles, dragging a hand through his hair. “Join the club.”

“I haven’t puked for a few hours now,” says Bobby. “I think… I might be done?”

Alex’s stomach lets out a loud gurgle, and he groans. “Ooh, I’m not.”

It wasn’t the worst night of his life, and that’s really saying something… but as the morning grows brighter, flooding the garage with sunlight, Reggie sighs and curls into his friend’s lap. Things could be worse. They could be a lot worse.

At least they’re walking through hell holding hands. Whatever Sunset Curve does, they do together… and that includes food poisoning, apparently.

Reggie can live with that, if it means his friends are with him through it all.

(His fever doesn’t break until that afternoon, and Reggie can still taste rancid taco meat a week later. The band takes days to recover completely. If they could say the experience turned them off street food for life, they’d be better off for it.

A few months later, Reggie finishes the last of his hot dog, and has just enough time to think, that definitely tasted funny, before his stomach twists.

Some people really never learn.)