Melodramatic Metathesiophobe

Hiding

Heaviness was the only thing he knew when he came back to reality. He simply felt heavy, laden with soreness, groaning as he rose to his elbows. For a while, he didn't remember why he was on the floor, how he'd ended up there, he just knew that the carpet was making him itch and yet he didn't want to get up. Moments passed, his mind cleared, and he remembered the agony of that past night. It hurt just to remember-- just to think about how bad it had been, if his aching eyes weren't enough of a reminder of the tears he shed.

He crawled, struggling, taking much longer to get up than he should have, and it was barely enough time for him to get to the bathroom before he lost the contents of his stomach. He didn't feel nauseous, just bad. His throat hurt and his body was shaking and he was done, so tired of the pain; of the relentless change. He continued heaving even as his stomach felt empty, eventually sinking to his side and curling. It hurt. It just hurt. He wasn't in the mood-- he was barely awake. Water filled his eyes again and he rolled onto his other side and his tail was shaking, pressed so far between his legs he was surprised it wasn't changing his inseam. He wanted it to end, just wanted the heat to stop-- wanted Mikey again. He needed the comfort. He needed his touch. He just didn't know if he could compose himself enough to ask him over.

The best he could do was reach, grip the counter and pull himself up, leaning heavily on it for a good long while before he trudged out of the bathroom, making sure to flush down his bile first. He tried to fix his hair and did the best he could to quell the swelling of his eyes, really trying to contemplate whether he could wear clothes or not. The answer was yes as he got loose sweatpants and a grey shirt on, tucking his tail away again, his breaths wheezing the whole time because the soreness had only gradually increased as he went. It felt like he had done nothing but a full body workout for an entire day.

He picked up his phone, composed his voice and called, pacing worriedly and sincerely hoping Mikey wasn't busy. He didn't know if he could stand being alone again, at least not with the thought of Mikey being able to help.

It rang. And rang again. And again. And again. His heart sank and his stomach hollowed and he collapsed to his carpet with a hand over his mouth.

"Hello? Ray, hey, what's up? Are you feeling better?" Mikey's voice flooded the room and Ray shook with the relief it brought. He really thought Mikey would have been busy just because the world wanted to spite him.

"Hi," he croaked, clearing his throat and swallowing, "um, I- are you- can you come over? Are you-- are you busy?" He knew his voice was thin and scared but he really couldn't do anything about it. He'd tried.

"Are you okay?" Mikey said immediately after, "what's going on? Did something happen??" Ray could hear him moving around a little more quickly.

"No, I'm- I think I'm okay, right now, but- please, can you come over, please?" his chest itched and he scratched and he hated that his nails had already barely pointed. He didn't want another thing to worry about, but as he itched the skin of his chest through his shirt, he could feel the scratch of hair. It made him want to groan. It had always been there, he was never a very smooth guy, but as with his scruff, it had started to grow much quicker.

"I think so, maybe I can leave in five," Mikey paused, "exactly how urgent is this?"

"Everything hurts," was all Ray could say, not knowing what else could possibly get his message across, "it won't stop, it won't- please, please Mikey," he lost himself in ramblings, "I- I don't know what to do- I can't take it, not anymore, I-"

"Stop," Mikey cut in, "Ray, dude, breathe, just breathe, I'll be there as soon as I can, you just need to breathe, okay? I'll help, I'll do what I can, just- get to your couch, please, give me five minutes," he was moving around, Ray could hear.