Hold Me Tighter (And Share the Umbrella Next Time)

Chapter 1

A bad experience often served to teach a lesson.

Did you burn your hand taking the pizza from the oven? You would never again skip using oven mitts because the sight of your blistering, reddened skin was just that bit more compelling than the oozing, mouth-watering pile of cheese melting atop the sauce, and your palm resembled the pizza crust; slightly burned, and most people wouldn't lick it without asking permission. Most. Bert usually licked first, asked questions later, but there was only one Bert McCracken in the world and so many people didn't have that particular problem.

Lessons were crucial. They were also difficult to learn when you were busy focusing on keeping your organs contained within your body as you spewed into the bucket for the third time that day.

Quinn could only focus on two things as he found himself in that situation; Why they were only allowed to piss in the toilet and if Bert would ever his mouth because the screeching from the front of the bus would offend a pterodactyl. He would have thought his situation was his own fault if he could remember the monstrous amount of alcohol he had forced into his system the night before. The guitarist would also smack himself for thinking that if he could remember it was Bert who stole his umbrella to torment Jepha with, which caused the bassist to drag the squirming McCracken back to the bus early, and left Quinn walking alone in the pissing rain that came minutes after he left the club. Branden had probably fucking died or something, Quinn didn't know where the guy was.

"I can't eat my fuckin' cereal with all your hurling noises in my brain, Quinn!" called Bert from the front of the bus, voice as full of indignation as could be when it was muffled by CocoPops.

Quinn tried to think of a clever retort but had to stop partway through the thought process when last nights spring rolls tried to spill out of his mouth instead. This is it, thought Quinn, I am never drinking again. His oesophagus filled with stomach acid as divine punishment for lying so boldly to the universe.

"Fuck, Allman, how much did you drink last night?"

"He's a lightweight!" hollered Bert, most likely spraying chewed up cereal everywhere, his words followed by an outcry of disgust from Branden that confirmed there were CocoPops casualties.

Quinn whined pitifully at the voice that pierced his foggy brain, spitting up a mouthful of bile into the bucket.

"Bert, shut your mouth. That much, right." Jepha gently pried the stinking container away from Quinn. "Lay down, I'll get you some ginger tea."

The guitarist glared up at him with betrayal in his eyes. First, he was hungover, then he puked his guts out, then Jepha wanted to punish him with tea?

"It'll settle your stomach, asshole." Quinn couldn't find the strength to protest as he was pushed (lightly) into his bunk again and refused to admit it when the tea actually helped. The chance for a day off was rare, and he would have preferred not to spend it dying in bed, but one day of hangover recovery wouldn't kill him.

He lay back moments after the tea put a stop to the frat party going on in his stomach, and fell asleep to the sounds of Bert and the apparently still living Branden laughing over what a little pussy Quinn was being. Bastards.

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Quinn woke sometime later to a bunk that smelled of cum, vomit, and broccoli. He wondered how long it would take for that last one to fade, but remembered it was basically baiting Bert to come sleep beside him and dismissed the thought immediately.

He could feel the sweat soaked into his t-shirt, and became aware of just how hot he was, kicking off the blankets. His legs shook and protested the small effort, hands unsteady even as Quinn struggled his way out of his top layer of clothing. The bus was eerily quiet apart from the hum of the air conditioning and the sound of the engine. Everyone was asleep or had been murdered, then. God, he needed a glass of water to get the taste of mucus and death out of his mouth.

Getting out of his bunk was easy, but the struggle came when Quinn tried to stand. The world faded away into grey static, slumping to his knees before he could stop himself and hitting the ground with a quiet groan.

"Quinn?"

Go Away, he thought as he slid to lay down on the ground, <em>leave me here to die</em>. A calloused hand brushed his forehead, hair sticking to it with sweat, then pressed against his neck. His pulse beat hard and fast against it, and whoever it was that leant over him took in a sharp breath. They checked his temperature again and began urging him to lift his head. The thought of moving seemed about as appealing as shoving a glass bottle directly up his ass.

"Come on, come on, cooperate with me, you cunt," the voice insisted, pulling and prodding until they could check Quinns eyes. "Look at me. Hey, can you do that?"

Quinn could hardly pay attention, anything longer than three words and his brain began to shut down. His vision was blurred, shaking softly, and growing limp in the arms of his mystery annoyance as the will to stay awake drained from him.

"... Shit." Quinn found himself laying on the ground again, and heard the hurried footsteps towards the driver's seat. Muffled voices, spiked with concern, were all he could make out. The footsteps returned, voice loud enough to send a spike of pain through his skull.

"We're stopping off at the hospital, wake the fuck up, everybody." Hospital? He tried to form the words to protest, to say he was fine, but the blond had his hands full keeping his stomach contents under control as he was lifted up and manhandled to the sofa. "Lay down. You should have said you were this sick earlier, Quinn, fuck..."

In Quinn's defence, his mouth had been occupied with half digested food on a mission to splash the inside of a bucket, so he hadn't been able to think about much beyond how nice immediate euthanization sounded.

The other inhabitants of the bus began to stir, an equal mix of confusion, exhaustion, and irritation permeating the atmosphere. A little bit of 'You interrupted my wet dream' too, but that was mostly Branden, so nobody cared too much about it. Bert was among the first to tumble (quite literally) from his bunk, storming through to the front area of the bus as Quinn was retreating into a ball of questionable hair and misery.

"What the fuck?" He groused, reaching down to adjust his balls. "What's wrong?"

Too loud. They were all so fucking loud. No wonder Mariah Carey only waited around them long enough for two pictures if this was how goddamn grating they all were. Quinn by then had curled in on himself, shaking like a leaf, if leaves were pale, skinny, and soaked in perspiration. There was a second exchange of muffled voices, Quinn doing all he could to block out the sounds, before smooth hands were grasping his chin to lift his head.

"Such a goddamn pussy Quinnifer, are you really this dedicated to being a bitch that-" Bert cut himself off before he could finish the sentence as he gazed upon his guitarist. His eyes were glazed and scarily vacant, no strength to hold his own head up. His skin was burning to touch, and his hair was plastered to his forehead. Quinn was sick. He was sick-sick. "Fuck."

With newfound care, Bert lowered Quinn down again, placing himself beside the guitarist to act as a slightly bonier, much worse smelling pillow. It was almost comical how he glared and hissed in irritation at the others for making half the noise he was just moments earlier.

"Quinn, Quinny, Quinnifer, little baby..." He cooed, fingers stroking through the blond's hair, along his back, tugging him into a safe position laying on top of the singer. "I didn't know you were this bad, poor baby Quinny, I got you."

He didn't move a muscle, holding the quivering blond in his arms, murmuring soft comforts, and feeding him a mug of some sort of magical healing tea or whatever the fuck Jepha called it. The bus arrived at the hospital, and Bert pressed a kiss to Quinn's cheek as they pulled in.

"You'll be fine, Quinny, you'll be okay. I got you, little baby."