Pete x Patrick---Fall Out Boy (SICK PETE)
"I literally cannot even begin to...what are you doing now?" Patrick yelled.
"Taking out the fucking trash like you wanted!"
It had been a stressful couple days for everyone; interviews, recordings, music videos, it was exhausting. When Pete had woken up that day, he knew it was going to be shit. He felt heavy and gross, didn't want Patrick's breakfast, and was so damn tired. He was clumsy as hell, couldn't seem to play or sing right, and kept spacing out. Everyone had been on edge, what with a certain deadline to hit, that they chalked it up to an aggravating off day. They still snapped at him on occasion though. He played it off as best he could, but towards seven in the evening, Patrick asked him to take the trash out, and then ten minutes later it was still there. That insinuated a fight between them.
After twenty minutes of yelling, Pete was done. He grabbed his shoes and pulled on a light jacket. For the fall weather, it was alright. He had a raging headache, felt sticky, and a sick to his stomach. He just wanted to be by himself, no. He wanted to be taken care of, but with the fight that was going on, it just wasn't happening. So he decided to just leave. He wasn't wanted at the moment anyway.
"...what are you doing now?" Patrick yelled.
"Taking out the fucking trash like you wanted!"
He stormed out the door and into the cloudy night. Assuring himself that Patrick wasn't going to run after him, he set out on the long walk. Hood pulled up, looking like some kind of high drug dealer, he lost himself in his own mind, stopping every now and then to rest. He turned everything on silent except for his music on the phone. He played some of his favorite bands and settled into his own state. He knew this was a horrible idea, being sick and all, but the fight and embarrassing events during the tiring day just made him apathetic to his wellbeing.
The volume was turned down significantly on his phone due to the headache his body gave. It was so cold outside that the jacket he wore held little to no heat. He thought about turning around and walking back, but he felt so tired and weak. He was also extremely far from home. An hour and a half of walking and he found himself almost at the other side of town near a gas station. There was a bus stop where he could rest his weary body at.
"Oof, God that's nice." he said. Granted it was freezing, but he wasn't relying on his shaking legs to keep him upright. His stomach swirled and made a bunch of sick gurgling sounds. "Fuck. Don't do this man." he told himself. He started to cough and lightly gag. Pretty soon, it passed. By now it was pitch black outside with only the dim streetlights illuminating his surroundings. A wave of coarse emotion came over him.
Patrick was mad
He was making a fool of himself all day
He felt god awful
The band was annoyed with him
Video makers were pissy with him
He was so far from home
Cold
And above all...
Nauseous
He cried. He sat on that bus stop bench and cried in pain and anger with himself. "Fucking hell Pete suck it up you little bitch." but he didn't. He didn't want to walk all the way home, felt like he couldn't ask for a ride, Uber would see him like this and that would be worse. Busses didn't come during night. All the facts made him cry even harder to the point of hiccups and growing nausea. Suddenly his phone started to buzz. One percent remaining.
Fuck. His stomach felt so bloated and out of shape, he leaned forward and tried to ease the pain by rubbing it, hoping to alleviate the discomfort as best he could. He began to salivate a lot more, and spitting a lot. The crying really put a jolt into his stomach. A burst of cold ran throughout his body, he pulled the jacket tighter, but there was nothing that it would do. If anything, he became worse. He hated it. He utterly hated it.
"Ah owww...." he moaned, placing his head between his knees. It was a dull, but intense discomfort. "Fucking hell...."
He did the best he could to ease the pain even a little, he tried to press on his stomach, hoping it was just gas. A small burp, but nothing else. He had to go home...there was nothing else to do. On the plus side, it was getting cloudy and that fall storm was rolling in. They were trying to shoot a video in a forest area and wanted to get done before the rain set in. Cliché.
He slowly got up and started back from where he came. Not a star in the sky, and it was black. No moon. His legs were begging to stop moving, threating to give out. But Pete pushed on and on. At one point he got so desperate to get home that he even tried to run. The sloshing in his gut was killing him. He continued to force himself onward.
Patrick looked out the window and called again. No answer.
"Fuck!" he screamed. It'd been almost two hours that he was gone, and it was starting to rain. Hard.
His heart was ready to burst, panic was setting in. He knew Pete was extremely strong and could do practically anything, but that provided little comfort. He paced back and forth, debating on whether or not he should drive around and search for him. He had already texted each of the guys, but no one had heard anything from him. Patrick tried again, but it went to voicemail. He sat on the couch and buried his head in his hands.
"Baby come home." he whimpered.
Ten minutes to go. He could already imagine it: getting home and being dry. As of now, he was completely drenched in the rain. His phone was dead, the jacket did nothing so he threw it away out of pained anger. A thin long sleeve shirt made him even worse in the rain. He had no protection whatsoever. He slowly walked further along. One block turned into Two, and two into three. He tried to stop counting and focus only on Patrick and their home. He was crying so hard at this point.
Five minutes.
Hiccups and sobs, he blinked through the haze of brain fog and rain. His shoulders were shaking with cold, fever, and crying. The arms wrapped around himself were sore. His legs were so close to giving.
Two and a half minutes.
He could see his house, so with every bit of strength he had left, he ran towards it.
"Patrick!" he screamed, banging on the door. It swung open. The last thing he could process was hearing his name before his legs decided to give out right then and there.
Patrick caught him as he started to go down. "Okay, oh my God Pete baby." He quickly pulled him in and shut the door. Pete was awake, but very out of it.
Patrick quickly pulled his wet clothes off of him and hurried to find some warm ones for him. Drying him off with a towel and then putting him in some warm clothes, Patrick helped him onto the couch. He rushed to find a thermometer, when he did, he saw that his temperature was 102.
"Jesus."
He took a pause to look at his sleeping dry-ish boyfriend. A gurgle came from his gut. Guessing he had a virus, he set a bucket beside Pete just to be safe. The man in question could hear everything happening. He opened his eyes and saw that he was back in a safe place. All of a sudden, a stronger wave of nausea overcame him, he started to salivate. Patrick had been looking for fever medicine, but that meant leaving Pete alone. He started to grow scared. He hadn't been this sick in forever. A sharp pain stabbed him in his stomach which made him scream for Patrick. He could see the bucket and leaned over it. He spit into it.
"Patrick!"
He ran back into the living room to see his scared and shaking boyfriend hugging the bowl. "Hey, hey I'm right here babe. Shh, it's okay. I'm here."
Pete was about to respond, but his answer came as a rolled out vomit burp. It rolled out of him in a thick and heavy stream. He coughed and threw up again into the bucket.
"Patrick..." he whined. "help me..."
"Shh. You're okay baby. It won't be too long." He held him and rubbed his back as he puked up several thick streams into the bucket. It was a worrying amount, but one of them had to be calm and it wasn't going to be the guy throwing his guts up.
He could feel Patrick's hand moving in a rhythm up and down his back between his shoulder blades. It burned. Then after feeling chunks move from his throat out his mouth, he coughed and coughed which resulted in more puking.
Brown, chunky, grainy vomit coated the bucket. It was filled nearly half way now, poor Pete had horrible stomach contractions and soon started to only dry heave. After three minutes of that, he just kept spitting to get rid of the acidic bitter taste.
"Think you're done sweetheart?"
"Mhm."
"Okay, I'm going to get you some water alright? You don't have to drink it, just rinse."
Pete nodded and fell back on the couch while Patrick did what he said. He rinsed, spit, and sipped a little bit of the water. The bucket was cleaned and placed beside his head again. Patrick figured that he couldn't keep down some fever reducer or some stomach pills, so he decided to pull Pete into his lap and watch him carefully. It was a little past midnight, so he decided to put on YouTube instead of regular late night boring TV. Tender petting and light massaging lulled Pete to a deep sleep. Even though he felt like shit, he was happy to be taken care of and happy to be with someone.
Twenty minutes later, Patrick noticed that Pete's stomach was contracting again; he was starting to stir awake. So grabbing the bucket, he positioned his head over it and watched him retch into it. A few curse words could be heard, but only six pukes this time was a good thing. As he spit the remains that caught in his mouth, he mumbled a few words. "'m sorry Pat."
"Shh, don't talk."
"No...*spit*I'm sorry for everything I did and didn't *gag* do today." he finished with a cough.
"Pete shut up, everyone was on edge, especially you. You don't have to be sorry for anything at all do you hear me? Damn, I wish I had known you were sick, I wouldn't have been so horrible. I'm so sorry Pete."
"Not your....fault."
Patrick sighed, "Well, whatever. Just, focus on getting better alright? I'll clean up. Can you try to keep down some water?"
"I can try."
Pete sipped some of the water and waited for it to come back up. Sadly, it did. Unfortunately, Patrick still had the bucket, so he leaned forward and threw up water and bile onto the blanket. The strain and toil he was going through made tears flow down his cheeks. He coughed and threw up again while crying. "Ow."
Patrick came into the room, "Oh God, alright. It's okay, Pete, look at me. Come on." He stripped the stained blanket off of him and Pete grabbed for a hug. "Shh, it's okay." Patrick rocked him back and forth as Pete cried. "You're going to feel worse." he warned.
True to his words, Pete's crying initiated a hard gag and small stream of vomit come up. "Pat, it...I...I don't know." he sobbed.
"Pete, look at me." Patrick gently took his face and made him look. "This isn't your fault. You are sick, everyone gets this way. I'm here to take care of you because I love you. Okay? You'll be okay soon. I promise."
The two hugged once more before Patrick left to wash the soiled objects. He returned with a new blanket and cuddled his sick boyfriend. Pete threw up about every hour, then hour and a half, but it wasn't that much. Mostly water. At one point he was dry heaving so hard that he was made to chug water and then throw it up, which surprisingly helped.
By five in the morning, he had kept the fever reducer and Pepto Bismol down. Patrick slept only when his boyfriend had a break from the vomiting. He called in to let everyone know that there wasn't going to be any work today no matter what. Management tried to put up a fight, but he put up a larger one. Anyone can guess who the winner was.
The next day, Pete woke up with a searing headache and sensitive stomach. So, Patrick gave him some painkillers and fed him bits of the BRAT diet. When he came back from another call, he saw Pete laying on the sofa staring at the TV.
"Hey baby. Feeling any better?"
"A little. Not as bloated."
Patrick smiled. "Then move over."
The two slept for most of the day while a boring set of movies played.