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writing-whump · 26 days ago

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Super sick

Dylan's high fever part 2. Dylan can't keep anything down, forcing Rip to some drastic measures. Emeto warning.

"-I have given him paralen and brufen and everything...no he won't keep it down, it has no effect-...then what am I supposed to do?"

Rip rubbed at his face. It was close to midnight and his eyes hurt. Which was ridiculous cause he didn't get tired. He blamed it more on the stress, the anxious squeezy feeling around his chest that got its hold on him since Dylan became all incoherent.

A quiet moan from Dylan's room got him quickly hanging up and hurrying back.

Dylan kicked the covers off himself, sweating through another shirt and was currently shivering. His eyes were open to slits and his hand was reaching out blindly. For him.

Rip sat up on the edge of the bed and took it. "Hey, hey, man, it's okay. I'm here."

"...where did you go?"

"I was calling your sister for the umpteenth time. No updates."

Dylan scrunched his face like the information was very complicated to understand. "Are they home yet?"

Rip sighed. He had been explaining it for the third time this night at the least. "The trains aren’t working, so they are stuck in Salzburg until the morning. It's just the two of us, buddy."

Dylan didn't seem alarmed, closing his eyes again. His grip on Rip tightened for a second which had his heart clenching again. It was way too weak of a grip to even call it that.

"How did I get into a bed?"

"You threw up all over the blankets, remember?"

Dylan shook his head, a tiny distressed noise making its way out through his clenched teeth.

"Shhhhh. It's alright. It's more comfy here, isn't it?" Rip held his feverish warm hand in both of his.

Keep him comfortable was the main advice he got. Cool Dylan down, keep him comfortable. Try to get him to drink the fever reducers and hope they stay down.

But Dylan wasn't keeping anything down and he seemed to deteriorate in front of Rip's fucking eyes. What kind of crazy flu was this? The fever hit so quickly and was so intense, not wanting to back down.

The hives were still present, but Dylan was too out of it to scratch at them. Or maybe they didn't itch, what did Rip know?

He reached for the cold wet towel on Dylan's forehead, adjusting it. There were small ones around his ankles and wrists and because he kept squirming, Rip had to adjust them a lot.

It was also challenging for organisation to replace them, since Dylan got all worked up whenever he couldn't feel Rip by his side. Contact in any way calmed him down.

Dylan's muffled moan interrupted his thoughts. He curled up on his side, around his stomach, one arm wrapped around his middle and tightening.

Rip shuffled closer to lean against the headboard and Dylan immediately rolled to him to press his face against Rip's tigh. There was a loud audible swallow.

Rip brushed Dylan's hair back, adjusting the towel to the side of his face. "Nausous?"

"Hurts," Dylan said, face turned into the fabric of Rip's sweatpants. He grabbed at the leg next, riding out a wave of cramps with a groan before relaxing slightly.

"We could try the pain meds again-"

Dylan shook his head immediately. "Won't stay down. Can I just sleep?"

"You can sleep, it's alright." Not that it was working, Dylan was too restless and kept tossing, woken up by his stomach.

Another 20 minutes later and Dylan still wasn't asleep. This was proper torture, Rip realized. Not letting him sleep and burning up like this.

"Come on, let's try the meds again," Rip said when he couldn't stand it anymore, sliding his hands under Dylan's back to prop him up against his chest.

He grabbed the glass with water and the pill on the nightstand. "Just one little sip, D."

Dylan didn't bother opening his eyes, eyebwords furrowed as he leaned so much as possible away from Rip's hand. "Don't wanna..."

"You have to. Please, D."

Dylan grimaced, like that wasn't a word he could stand to reject, cracking one eye open. He nodded and Rip quickly pressed the pill between his lips, following up with the glass.

Dylan took a small sip, tensing up, his fist curling into Rip's shirt.

"Try to keep it down for me," Rip pleaded, putting the glass away.

Dylan gave him a tight nod, but his face was clouded over with queasiness.

Rip held him upright, arms around his torso, careful not to put too much pressure. Because of the closeness, Rip could practically feel every reaction and move Dylan's body made.

The sick boy's breathing picked up, chest rising and falling rapidly. He pressed the side of his face into Rip's chest, lips in a tight line. His fist was still scrunching up Rip's shirt like he wanted to tear it to pieces.

And then the fight was lost. The gags came, tiny at first, just shakes of his body that grew in intensity. His chest was heaving soon after, with strength and urgency Dylan currently didn't possess consciously.

Total autopilot.

Rip reached for the trashcan on the floor, holding it under Dylan's chin just in time for the sip of water and the pill to fall out. The heaves were way too strong for that small amount and Dylan kept gagging for 2 minutes straight in empty.

Shaking from extertion, he fell back against Rip who thought his heart would soon burst out of his chest with anxiety.

As the night ticked by, Rip figured out another distracting technique. Stroking little circles on top of Dylan's forehead with his forefinger.

It gave Dylan something to focus on, it seemed, cause the little groans sounded more pleased than distressed, his face turning towards Rip as if to follow the movement.

Rip drew the little patterns around Dylan's eyebrows, his cheekbones, then followed into his hair, leaving trails inside the sweat.

He couldn't remember the last time he felt this helpless.

...

Around 5 a.m. Rip couldn't bear it anymore. He kept imagining the road to the pharmacy, visualising it in head in detail. Staring at in in Google maps meant he knew exactly where it was and he came up with several ways on top of the buildings to get there.

Minimising any contact. It would be early in the morning, there wouldn't be a crowd and he could climb up the balconies and take the roofs just fine.

There was just the direct contact with the pharmacist to worry about.

But Isaiah said his shadow was in synch with him. And this was something Rip cared about so how could his soul, his heart and his essence stand in his way?

That boy was his whole fucking world now.

He waited till Dylan fell into a less than peaceful slumber, easing him down on the pillows and sneaking out from his hold. Took money and a bag on his back and opted for the window for the better ledge.

The whole mission couldn't take more than 30 minutes. It was shameful to death he had to gather his courage for the whole night to do it.

Climbing wasn't a problem. Vienna houses were so intensely decorated, there was always something to hold on to and once he reached the top, he could run almost the rest of the way.

It wasn't dark anymore, more of a morning grayness with first pink on the horizon.

Rip reached the pharmacy from the rooftop and scanned the street for people. It was sleepy and empty only one runner jogging nearby.

Rip waited for him to pass before climbing down. Normally, he would jump with the help of his shadow to soften his landing, but he didn't dare reaching for it.

All he could focus on was keeping it shut, tight, away. Suppressed as much as he could.

He stopped in front of the door. Held the handle emerassingly long time. What if this was the end? What if he hurt or killed that woman inside and ruined everything for this pack, for the Executioner?

What if Isaiah was wrong to believe in him? What if Rip was simply not someone who could be saved?

What if he was but this was pushing it? Was it too soon to try to talk to a human?

Worse even, what if Dylan had been wrong about Rip all along?

And maybe all of it wouldn't matter if Rip couldn't make himself get him some fucking medicine before his brain fried.

One more breath. Rip looked down and went inside.

...

Rip couldn't remember the way back. Or the talk itself. It was as if all sound was muffled, as if the world turned black-and-white. Colourless.

But he got back, climbed into the window in the living room. He had a bag filled with anti-nausea meds and fever reducers and aloe vera cream for the hives.

He managed to have a freaking conversation with the elderly lady behind the counter. Who had nothing but sympathetic smiles for him, like he was taking care of his brother for the first time.

Rip shut the window behind him. Sound was coming back to him and it was ringing in his ears. His shadow was a string held back too tightly, cutting blood into the palm around it.

He should hurry.

Shooting for the living room, he pushed the flat thin pill into his mouth. "Don't swallow. Let it dissolve. There you go. Hold it for half an hour and we can try the fever meds again."

Dylan's eyes were shut but he complied. Rip got him new towels for his forehead, neck and ankles.

He got it. Dylan would get better now. They were safe.

The ringing turned to shrieking in his ears. Rip dashed to the bathroom, closing the door. His shadow spilled out, covering the floor and the walls.

Rip pressed his palms against his cheeks. "What?! Happy now? What was so damn hard about it?"

He couldn't say. It was like he was outside of his body when he talked with the lady. The sound of his voice, the sound of her voice, it was lost on him. His vision was blurry. But somehow they communicated long enough to get what was needed.

His stomach turned fiercely and Rip fell down to his knees, heaving over the toilet.

His skin was itching. His thoughts were buzzing wasps in his head and there were snakes inside him, slithering out.

He gagged and heaved, not fighting the onslaught of what he couldn't even name. A wave of snakes got its way out, stinging his throat on the way.

...

Rip woke up to a warm hand on his forehead.

"Don't tell me you caught it so quickly?" Dylan croaked, voice shot from vomiting.

Rip opened an eye. He was lying on the rag in the bathroom, fingers clawed into it. His insides were shaking and he still felt nausous and pained and burned, but also weirdly empty.

"You-" he gagged, but swallowed it down. "You shouldn't be up yet."

"Finally not nausous. I took some paralen an hour ago," Dylan said with a relieved sigh. His cheeks were hallow and still pale, but he looked a lot more like himself already. "What's wrong with you?"

Rip squeezed his eyes shut. "...went to the pharmacy to get you the anti-nausea meds."

He didn't see Dylan's face, but the shocked gasp was enough. Then came the hand, too warm, palming his cheek. "I'm so sorry. You shouldn't have-"

Rip grabbed onto Dylan's hand on his face. "Don't- don't fucking say it. I am the one who's sorry. The whole night you had to- cause I-" Another gag, more forceful this time.

Rip forced himself up on one arm to burp over the porcelain rim, shaking all over.

Dylan rubbed the center of his back, tilting to the side woozily. "Shhhhh. It's okay." He propped his chin on Rip's shoulder, eyes closed. "We are okay now."

#sickfic #emeto #vomiting #fever #Dylan #Rip

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