Let Yourself Go

Sick Boy sniffled, rubbing at his nose with the back of his hand. He flopped over in the back of the van and pressed his aching head into his pillow with a groan. The irony of it all was not lost on him.

“Chris,” a soft voice called. Sick Boy cracked open an eye and peered blearily at Nate. The young bassist had his chin propped up on the back of his seat, watching him with a frown and concerned eyes. “You need to drink more water.”

Sick Boy sighed but forced himself to sit up, clutching his head against a dizzy spell. His chest ached from all the coughing he’d been doing, he was hot and sweating from his fever, and when he tried to speak, just to say thanks, his voice was a croak, harsh and horse as it dragged from his aching, raw throat.

Nate held out a water bottle for him and Sick Boy took it, sipping gratefully. Nate reached out, pressed a hand to Sick Boy’s forehead, and frowned. Chris sighed at the cool touch, leaning into it.

Nate was looking more concerned by the minute. He disappeared for a minute and Chris felt the air conditioner kick on, blowing icy air across his flushed, feverish skin. It felt good, a relief against the suffocating heat. Nate crawled into the back with him and handed him a pill.

“It’s Dayquil. Take it… You’re not playing tonight. Or tomorrow. Or at all, until you’re better.”

Chris nodded. He felt like shit; he wasn’t about to argue.

“You’re gonna let me take care of you,” Nate continued, looking stubborn and as if he fully expected Sick Boy to argue.

Chris just smiled and settled back down, his head in Nate’s lap.