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By the time John finally opened his eyes, the morning had come and gone. He let sunlight flood his vision, throwing a hand over his face momentarily to shield himself from the brightness. Walking to the kitchen after lying in bed for a few moments, John started a pot of coffee. He leaned against his granite counter and rubbed his tired eyes, trying to wake himself up. It wasn’t until he started to yawn that he felt the searing pain in the front of his throat.

It felt as though John had swallowed a handful of glass shards, all of which were now scraping his upper throat. He only felt it in one area, rather than the all-around pain that came with a sore throat. John grimaced as the pain became more unbearable, nearly bringing him to tears. “Ahh—” He gasped, short of breath. John gripped the counter tightly; his knuckles turned white from the pressure. He didn’t move for several minutes, until the coffee machine behind him beeped. At that point, the pain had subsided slightly. He desperately wanted it to pass, like it was some sort of random phase. Kind of like how his foot would fall asleep after sitting on it for hours while playing guitar. John knew this was serious, however; he just didn’t want to accept it.

Letting out a laborious breath, John searched for his cellphone and called the first person that came to mind. He brought the phone to his ear and waited; the phone rang once, twice, three times. Probably a couple more. No one answered. He tried again frantically. One ring. A second.

“Hello? John?” A voice answered on the third ring, sounding slightly worried. John let out a painful breath, feeling quite relieved. “John?” The voice asked again, his voice rising.

“K-Kenny? Could you come over?” John pleaded with a scratchy and rather broken-up voice. “Please?”

There was a pause, then the sound of a closet being opened. “Uh, yeah. 15 minutes, okay?” Kennedy told him, waiting for a response. All he got was a mumbled thank you then a dial tone, signaling John had already ended the call.

There was a knock on John’s door 17 minutes later – not that he’d been counting. Slowly, John shuffled towards the door. It was almost as though his slow movement decreased the pain in his burning throat ever so slightly.

He opened the door and Kennedy stared at him, his eyes widening. John knew he looked like shit; his hair was a mess when he usually tried to keep it in check, his face was pale, and his throat was red as if he’d been clawing at it – and he had been. Concern filled Kennedy’s eyes as he stepped into the house and closed to door behind him.

It was silent for a moment as Kennedy stared at his friend, trying to decipher what exactly had happened to John.

“What’s wrong?” Kenny finally asked, looking up at John, who was just a couple inches taller than himself.

John bit his lip. “My – my throat. It’s all fucked up.” John choked out, trying to keep his face as emotionless as possible. Now that Kennedy was here, for whatever reason, he didn’t want to seem like he was weak. Not that it was wrong…he just didn’t want Kennedy to see him like that. John wasn’t even sure why.

“Um—” Kennedy started, then frowned. “How, exactly?”

John rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Oh, hell if I know!” He hissed. “It-it feels as though there’s glass in there. Burns like hell. Can barely talk. Doubt I could sing.” He continued, mumbling. John hadn’t wanted to admit his inability to sing; their band had a goddamn tour coming up in less than two months! He wasn’t sure what was wrong with him, but he figured he’d need time to heal. How long would that take? Would it even heal? John couldn’t help but worry about his career—what if it was over? Everyone would hate him. Kennedy would hate him, surely.

“Have you tried—” Kennedy started to say, only to be cut off by John’s glare. Obviously, John had; he was responsible like that. He only called Kennedy because he didn’t know what to do anymore.

“Okay.” Kenny sighed, putting his hands in his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels. He had a feeling that John wasn’t going to like what he had to say next.

“You should go see a doctor. I’m sure we could get an appointment for later today.”

John scoffed. He hated doctors; they were absolutely useless. There wasn’t anything they could tell him that John wouldn’t be able to figure out by himself. They took your money and gave you shitty medicine that never worked. Like he said, he hated doctors.

“John, this could be serious. Please go see a doctor. I’ll be right there with you.”

John looked at the ground. He knew Kennedy was right, but he just didn’t know if he had it in him to see one. He shook his head, unsure of himself.

“Why not, Johno?”

“I’m afraid of what they’ll tell me, Kenny.” John rasped quietly, his voice growing worse every time he spoke. “What if I never sing again? What if the band has to stop making music because of me? Everyone will hate me – you’ll hate me.” He’d probably never been more honest in his life at that moment; spilling his every thought to his best friend. John blamed it on the pain, or perhaps he was just so defeated he didn’t care anymore.

Kennedy smirked. “No one’s gonna hate you, man. And if they do, I’ll be sure to kick their ass for you.” He gave John a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. Kennedy hadn’t ever been one for physical contact with anyone, even his friends, and he certainly hadn’t ever been all that great at comforting them. Still, the effort given was enough to make John shrug and give in.

They’d go to the doctor after all. As long as Kennedy would be there with him, his fears would stay in the back of his mind.