Why Don't We Sickfics

Stomach Virus

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He was awoken by a horrible feeling, almost like he was going to--

Oh no.

Corbyn sat up in bed, flinging the sheets off himself as he sprinted to the bathroom, his hand pressed against his mouth. A horrible sound emitted from his throat as he kneeled in front of the toilet, his stomach expelling its contents in a rapid fashion.

Tears blurred his eyes and he braced himself against the wall, breathing heavy. He wiped the spit off his chin, internally cringing.

I'm so disgusting.

He closed his eyes for just a second, trying to calm down, when another wave of nausea swept over him and he found himself leaning over the toilet bowl once more. The half-digested remains of his lunch stared back at him. Shuddering, he flushed the toilet and closed the lid, not wanting to look at his mess.

A horrible cramp leapt into his stomach and he felt tears spring to his eyes. "No, no, oh my god." He tried to stop himself, to sit himself upright, but he was in so much pain that all he could do was lie on the floor, curl himself up into a ball, and hope it went away.

He heard his phone ring from the bedroom, looking in the general direction of the door warily. In his mind, a debate was alight: should he try to get the phone? Was it a worthy sacrifice?

Sighing in defeat, he scrambled to his feet and made a cringing attempt to jog to the bedroom, hunched over in pain. He grabbed the phone with his clean hand, answering the call without even looking to see who it was.

"Hello?" he half groaned, feeling absolutely miserable.

"Hey, bro." It was Jonah. "I just wanted to ask if you've heard anything from Daniel lately."

"Um, I don't think I have." Corbyn hobbled to the sink, rinsing his mouth and scrubbing his hands clean.

"Okay." Jonah replied. "I'm just really worried about him. He hasn't messaged any of us in a while. Should I check in on him?"

"Yeah, you do you." Corbyn mumbled, drying his hands on a towel. "Speaking of, how have you been?"

"Eh, alright I guess." Corbyn could imagine Jonah's shrug through the phone. "It's actually been really nice staying here with my family. How's it going for you? I hope you're not lonely all by yourself in L.A."

Corbyn was trying to fight the nauseous feeling that was rocking his body. "Oh yeah... I'm great. Things are going... good. Have you written any music lately?"

"Oh, are you kidding? So much." Jonah half-laughed, half-sighed. "Honestly, all this virus and everything is making me get into all these moods, perfect for songwriting."

"I'll bet." Corbyn  massaged his temples. "Hey, my mom is calling me on the other line, can we talk later?" It was a lie-- he always called his mom at 8 PM, after dinner. But he couldn't withstand pretending to be fine when he felt horrible.

"Sure, bro, talk to you later." Jonah hung up.

Corbyn tossed his phone on the bed, flopping down beside it. Yeah, he felt a little guilty for lying to Jonah, but at this point he felt so sick that he'd rather lie down than catch up with his friend. He let out what was probably best described as a mixture of a whimper and a moan, gingerly curling up into a ball. His face scrunched up in pain, and every breath he took felt labored.

"This hurts so bad..." he whispered to himself. His mind was engaged in a debate-- should he get out of bed, look for medicine in the house? Or was it better to just stay there, lie in bed until he started feeling better?