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“So, you’re what? Trying to make weight before the big fight?” I asked.
“I’m—” Vic’s eyes popped wide and, before I could ask what was wrong, he jumped out of bed and sprinted to the restroom.
Like a dunce, I waited for him to come back. When you’ve grown accustomed to the unbreakable, it really catches you off guard when it breaks. The minute I heard the tell-tale signs of vomiting, I dashed into the bathroom.
Vic was slouched over the toilet, expelling days of breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He looked miserable and angry. Between vomiting, he managed to tell me to get out.
Fat chance. I pulled his hair back and rubbed his back gently, like my mother used to do. He swatted me away, trying to get me to stop comforting him.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” He growled between vomiting. I didn’t have anywhere to be. I was still in a job limbo. When Vic realized I wasn’t going to leave, but instead would comfort him, he seemed to relax. He finally finished throwing up and fell back against the wall.
I flushed the toilet and got a wet washcloth. He mumbled something incoherent as I rubbed the cloth over his face.
After I was satisfied with the cleanup job, I dropped the washcloth on the floor.
“I don’t usually get sick,” Vic said.
“You don’t say?” I said sarcastically. “Well, I’m a pro at getting sick.” I glanced at the toilet and winced. It was dirty. “There’s nothing worse than throwing up in a dirty toilet,” I said, gesturing to it. “Actually, strike that. Try throwing up in pee.”
Vic looked horror-struck, which only fueled my fire.
“Yep, I’ve done that. I’ve also thrown up in pee right after I peed. And,” I said continuing, “I’ve thrown up in diarrhea right after—”
Vic put his hand over my mouth. “Stop!”
I mumbled through his hand until he removed it. “I’m just proving how much of a sick pro I am. You have a lot of work to do if you want to be like me, Wall.”
Vic put his face between his knees. His words came out muffled. “I think I’ll pass.”
I rubbed his back and asked, “How are you feeling?”
He lifted his head. “Much better, actually.” Vic stood up and brushed off invisible dirt from his pajama pants. He frowned down at the washcloth on the floor.
“You’re going back to bed,” I said, before he could comment on the washcloth. I don’t care if he felt better. He had just thrown up all the food needed to cure world hunger and his fever could have boiled an egg. He was going back to bed. I stood up, steering him out of the bathroom and towards the bedroom.
“I feel fine now. Really,” Vic said, trying to wiggle away from my hands.
“I will put you to bed myself, if I have to,” I said as I gave his back a gentle push.
Vic smiled a wolfish grin over his shoulder. “Promise?”
I scoffed. Of all the things that turn me on, cleaning up Vic’s vomit was not on the list.
“Ten minutes ago, you had my thermostat set to ninety. You are not magically better. Get your butt back to bed.” I smacked him in the butt, ushering him toward the bed.
I made a mental list of what I would need to get him. He needed a bowl in case he needed to throw up and couldn’t make it to the bathroom. He needed the TV remote close to him. He needed clean clothes and clean sheets. He definitely didn’t need pain killers, because then he would feel even better and probably would think he was cured. No, if he were to get any type of relief, it would come in the form of a sleep aid that knocked his ass out.
“Your thermostat?” Vic asked, cutting into my list-making. “This is my place.”
“It’s was set at ninety degrees!” I backtracked, realizing what he had said. “Your place? Well, until you let me live in my place, your apartment is mine.”
Fuckin’ crazy train. This was my house until he said I could go back to my house.
“Normally, I prefer it at eighty-five,” Vic stated.
I stared at him like he was an alien. Eighty-five degrees? I blinked twice, slowly. “Eighty-five degrees? You are so lucky you have me.”
I helped him into the bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. Yep, he was very lucky.
