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angstyaches · 5 months

Note

i’ve been thinking about a halloween prompt for donnacha because i’m so incredibly obsessed with his and henry’s relationship dynamic.

i know you’re not big into overeating, so you know how when you don’t eat, you eventually start to get a little woozy and gross feeling? donnacha hasn’t eaten in hours cause he’s been busy running last minute halloween errands (can you get more candy? we have to have this very specific sweet! that place was out? oh no! can you try here?!) for everyone and he’s starving by the time he gets home.

he’s staying in with henry this year because he doesn’t like going out and hen doesn’t really go out anymore either. plus, donnacha doesn’t want to see a repeat of last year where he walked in on henry anxiety puking on the bathroom floor after snapping at lucy. so he beats a hasty retreat to henry’s room to get away from the mayhem happening in the shared space after he gives everyone their stuff, and he’s got a bag of his favourite junk food with him that he starts to munch on while he jabbers on to henry about his day. everything is going great!

only… his belly isn’t really liking all the sugar and it isn’t really helping his headache go away and he’s getting quieter and quieter until henry finally asks him what’s wrong.

-🐭

Yes, it's December 2nd, and yes, I know this is late.

Thank you so much for this lovely, detailed, thoughtful request, anony 🐭, I appreciate you so much and I hope you're well.

I've had this draft for so long and I'm a bit tipsy right now as I'm posting it, so I'm sorry if there are typos/inconsistencies, or if it just straight up isn't good 👍

CW: overthinking, stomach pain, mention of cheating, mention of breakup, overindulgence (sugar), mention of chronic pain, platonic caretaking.

Word Count: 4,200+

___

Donnacha barely had a second to breathe as he stepped through the door, before he was being beckoned through to the living area by someone who didn’t even live here.

Autumn was dressed as Belle from Beauty and the Beast; her outfit was casual, nothing extravagant like the yellow ball gown from the movie, but he could tell that was who she was. He felt a pang of recognition at the lace detail on the collar of her yellow blouse. Had she worn that on a date once? Had he been with her when she’d bought it? A second pang, this one tinged with loss.

It still sent him reeling, sometimes, that she wasn’t his, and he wasn’t hers.

“What is it?”

“Get in here.”

Donnacha sighed. He’d been running on empty all afternoon, actively ignoring the rumbling in his stomach and the tension in his brain for hours now. Now that he was home, he felt like wilting.

He blinked in bewilderment as he stepped into the living area. Lucy had been stringing up Halloween decorations since halfway through September, but she’d really doubled down at some point since he’d left this morning. He could barely see the mouldings for the amount of fake cobweb and crepe paper streamers filling the corners and tapering off across the ceiling.

But it was the unfamiliar faces that really threw him.

“Donnacha, this is Dixon,” Autumn said, gesturing towards the Asian guy dressed as Legolas from Lord of the Rings, and then to the dark-skinned girl in the ladybird costume. They were both sitting on the couch, flanked by a seated Claudette on one side and by Autumn standing at the other. “And this is Leigh. We’re in the musical together. Guys, this is Donnacha, my –”

She didn’t falter as she spoke, but in between her words, Donnacha’s heart did a sickening flip. Was she about to bring up the fact that they were exes? He wasn’t sure he was comfortable advertising that with these people he didn’t know –

“Oldest friend,” Autumn finished.

Donnacha let go of a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “I mean, I’m not that old.” He smiled; both Dixon and Leigh had beautiful smiles, so it would have been a little difficult not to. “Great to meet you both.”

“You, too,” they practically said in unison, which led to Leigh curling her lip and softly backhanding Dixon’s leg. Next to Dixon’s knee, there was a glossy pride pin that caught Donnacha’s attention. It was attached to the strap of a side bag that he was holding firmly in his lap.

Donnacha breath caught in his throat as he thought about the flat cardboard packet that was currently sitting in the top drawer of his bedside table. Inside, still wrapped in plastic, was a bisexual flag pin. He’d been a little drunk and dizzy when he’d ordered on Etsy, and it’d seemed like a great idea at the time. He’d even smiled proudly to himself when it had arrived, but as soon as he’d started opening the package, as soon as he’d started thinking about actually wearing the pin, a pain had bloomed in the pit of his stomach. It just seemed as though advertising his identity was unnecessary. Maybe dangerous. Undoubtedly more trouble than it was worth.

He understood it now, though; he felt himself wanting to be seen, to be recognised, like Dixon.

Shit, he thought. Maybe he should have mentioned his pronouns after Autumn had introduced him –

It was too late now, because Lucy was scampering up to him, hands outstretched. “Thanks, hon.”

She relieved him of the shopping bags that had been testing the limits of his shoulder sockets for the past hour. He smiled at her tiredly and looked at her skinny denim jeans and plaid shirt, wondering if she hadn’t gotten changed yet, or had poured so much Halloween spirit into decorating the flat that she had none left to fuel a costume.

“You kept the receipts, right? I’ll pay you back tomorrow afternoon,” Lucy said.

“What are you dressing up as tonight?” Claudette asked from the other end of the sofa. Donnacha realised she was addressing him. Their eyes were pinned on Donnacha’s face over the rim of their cup. Autumn had promised – of her own volition – that she would never tell anybody that Donnacha had kissed someone else during their relationship, but he could never quite shake the feeling that Claudette knew something more than they let on.

“Eh, nothing.” Donnacha shook his head. “I’m… I’m actually not coming out tonight.”

“Oh, you’re not?” Autumn looked genuinely crestfallen, which gave Donnacha yet another strange pang in the centre of his chest. He didn’t know what to do with it, so he boxed it up, tucked it away in the back of his mind, and tried to stop thinking about it.

“Jesus, Donnacha!” Lucy called out from behind him. She’d propped the bags on the edge of the coffee table and was fishing things out, one by one. “You let us boss you around on the phone all day, and you’re not even partying with us? Why didn’t you say something!”

“Lu, it’s grand, seriously,” Donnacha smiled. He edged a little closer to her as some familiar packaging caught his eye. He’d almost forgotten that he’d grabbed something just for himself amidst all of the bossing around. “These are for me,” he chuckled sheepishly, reaching for the packets.

Lucy just nodded and shrugged. “Yeah, fair enough.”

“Anyway, I’d already promised I’d drive to the shops before this other plan came up…”

“Ooh-ooh, other plan?” Lucy lowered her voice, though everybody could still hear her, clear as day. “A hot date?”

“Oh, yeah.” Donnacha smirked. “I’ve got a date with this floppy-haired lad who works in web design and never leaves his bedroom.”

As soon as he made the joke, he wanted to snatch it out of the air and swallow it back down. It had somehow sounded like an unnecessary dig at his friend, and implied that it really was a date. How the hell had that happened?

“No – I just… Me and Henry, we’re just gonna watch a movie and hang out. You know, after what happened last year, I didn’t think it’d be good for him to be, you know, overwhelmed…” Donnacha couldn’t believe it was his own mouth that was saying these things. Nobody needed him throwing about reminders of Henry’s meltdown last Halloween, least of all Henry himself.

Autumn gave one of her politest smiles and turned to say something off-topic to Leigh. Claudette was still eyeing Donnacha with a curiosity that bordered on disgust. Even Lucy didn’t seem to know what to say, which was never a good sign.

Donnacha frowned, irritated. He’d spent all afternoon hunting down everybody’s requests for the Halloween party, edging through traffic jams, bothering staff members about their stock. He hadn’t expected to be hoisted up onto anyone’s shoulders like he’d scored a winning try, but shouldn’t he at least be allowed to be himself?

He pushed that feeling aside, packing it up alongside his confusing feelings about Autumn, and his reluctance about his identity, and his nervousness about Claudette, and his guilt about Henry.

He cleared his throat and rubbed at his stomach, which delivered to him a nasty twinge to remind him that the last thing he’d eaten had been a pathetically small, dry article that had barely passed for a blueberry muffin at 10am. The packaging of his chocolate bars crinkled in his other hand, and he couldn’t help eyeing the half-empty plates that were scattered throughout the room, holding mini spring rolls and spicy wedges and breaded cheese sticks.

“There any food left?” he asked, feeling oddly grateful for the opportunity to change the subject.

“Yeah, lots.” Payton.

Donnacha turned around.

They were sitting at the dining table, and had been quiet and staring at their phone since Donnacha had come in. They were wearing a navy jacket and had curled the front of their hair, but Donnacha didn’t care to contemplate their appearance any further.

They half-smiled at him and nodded towards the kitchen. “Help yourself.”

Help yourself. Of course, Payton would know all about helping themself, since they’d helped themself to Autumn less than a fortnight after the break-up –

“Thanks,” Donnacha said, making a beeline for the kitchen.

Everything edible was spread out on baking trays and was dried out from the oven and cold from sitting out too long. It was hardly an appetising site, especially while Donnacha was already thinking about tearing into his Macaroon bars. He’d been hit with a wave of nostalgia when he’d spotted them on his hunt for Lucy’s obscure requests, and he’d bought them thinking they would be his desserts for the next few weeks, but who was going to stop him from making them into his dinner tonight?

His stomach gurgled quietly beneath his hoodie. On top of the sharp hunger pains, it felt knotted with tension. He couldn’t believe how easily he forgot how skipping meals affected him, making him shaky and emotional. It’d been a mistake to let it get this bad.

After tossing a small handful of wedges and some ketchup onto a plate, Donnacha tucked his chocolates under his arm and swept through the living area one more time.

“Happy Halloween, have a good night,” he smiled, and he didn’t stop to let anyone’s expression or response sink in.

___

“Oh,” Donnacha deadpanned, “you’re working?”

Henry didn’t turn around at first, and Donnacha realised it was because he had his noise-cancelling headphones on. He must have seen the light from the hallway reflected in the computer screen though, because the further Donnacha pushed the door open, the more Henry’s attention seemed to twitch away from his work.

He took off the headphones and swung his chair into a half-turn. “You’re late.”

That face was a relief to lay eyes upon. Henry had washed his hair, there was some colour in his cheeks, and the circles under his eyes were barely a smudge. His eyebrows were scrunched up in a frown, but that was hardly unusual, and Donnacha knew that Henry could be frowning himself into a knot and still be genuinely content.

He didn’t understand it, but he knew it.

“Did you say something, by the way?”

“Yeah.” Donnacha tossed his Macaroon bars onto Henry’s bed. He sat down on the mattress, his plate of wedges on his lap. “I was trying to ask what you’re playing at. Working? I thought we were watching a film.”

Henry’s mouth slid into a thin, stretched line, his expression taut with unvoiced laughter.

“What?” Donnacha asked. He thought for a second about what he’d just said, popping a mini spring roll in his mouth and crunching down on it. Then he sighed, replaying in his head what he’d previously said, hearing it through Henry’s ears. “Seriously? Fil-um?”

Henry cracked a smirk.

Donnacha pointed at Henry’s computer screen. “Switch that off.”

“I want to finish what I’m working on.” Henry held up his hands, pre-emptively stopping Donnacha from protesting. “This is on you. I had to start something to occupy myself, and now I have to finish it. You were very late.”

“Yeah, I’m extremely aware. Bloody starving as well,” Donnacha said over a grumble in his stomach, dipping a cold potato wedge into the little pool of ketchup on the side of his plate. “So, are we not actually watching this movie anymore?”

“Of course.” There was no little amount of judgement in Henry’s gaze as he adjusted the bridge of his glasses. “I still can’t believe you’ve never seen The Nightmare Before Christmas.”

Donnacha chewed without much relish. He took in, for the first time since entering, what Henry was wearing. “I still can’t believe you own a... baby-grow.”

Henry glanced down at his orange one-piece pyjama set. “It’s a onesie.”

“Same thing.”

Henry held eye contact with him for a few seconds as he pulled the hood of the onesie up over the top of his head. A Jack O’Lantern face was stitched into the hood, and a little green stalk sat at the crown of Henry’s head. “It was a birthday gift from Lucy.”

“Was it? All she gave me for my birthday was scratch cards.”

“Try being her friend for ten years.”

Eyeing the pumpkin pyjamas one last time, Donnacha shook his head. “You know, I think I’m good.”

“Mmhmm,” Henry grunted. Hood still pulled up, his attention had already been drawn back to his computer screen.

Donnacha let him work in silence for a couple of minutes, slowly chewing his way through his pile of wedges, but eyeing his chocolate bars with much more enthusiasm. He hadn’t had a lot to eat yet, but having calories inside of him had improved his mood drastically.

Licking a smear of ketchup from his thumb, he glanced up at Henry. “Did you get some food?”

Without tearing his eyes away from his work, Henry pulled his hunched shoulders further back into his chair, unblocking Donnacha’s view of a paper bag that sat next to his keyboard. “I secretly ordered Thai noodles while I was waiting for you. You were very –”

“Very, very, very, extremely late,” Donnacha finished for him. It brought a smile to his face, to picture Henry in his pumpkin onesie, creeping down the hallway to collect his food at the front door without alerting anybody else in the apartment.

“I have some leftovers, if you’d like to warm them up.”

“Nah. Thanks.” Donnacha reached over to put his half-full plate on Henry’s nightstand. The scratching sound of ceramic on wood made Henry’s gaze jerk to the side.

“Hmm. Thought you were starving?”

“I am.” Donnacha rubbed his palms together.

“Then, what are you going to… What are those?”

Donnacha grinned broadly as he tore open the first packet, and the wrapped chocolate bars fell onto the bedspread. He felt a spark of pride upon seeing Henry half-turn his chair again. “Come on. Don’t tell me you don’t know what these are.”

Henry’s head bobbed from side to side.

“They’re Macaroons!” Donnacha exclaimed. “They’re a classic. Don’t tell me you never had these as a child?”

“My mother didn’t care much for sweets.” Henry touched the bridge of his glasses again.

“Want to try one?”

Henry shook his head. “I’m full.”

“Alright, but you’re missing out.” Donnacha picked up one of the bars and laid it to the side. “Know what, I’ll save you one.”

“Save me one?” Henry’s voice rose. “How many are you planning to eat?”

“Never you mind!” Donnacha waved a hand towards Henry’s computer before his fingers began wrestling open the wrapper on the bar. “Don’t you have graphics to design, or something?”

“I do.”

The first mouthful of the bar seemed to melt away on his tongue, but after the second, Donnacha began to feel the warm, giddy sensation of sugar settling in his belly. Mentally, he was right back in his hometown – or rather, the closest village to the remote area where his father’s farm was located – surrounded by crumbling stone walls and single-lane roads and the smell of vegetation.

Donnacha happily burned his way through three more of the bars, and was fishing the next one out of the packet when he let out an involuntary sound that Henry clearly found distracting. “Mmm.”

“Enjoying yourself,” Henry observed. Maybe it had been intended as a question, but there was no doubt in his voice.

Donnacha shook his head in a way that meant yes. “You have your cartoons and your old films, Hen –”

“Fil-ums,” Henry repeated incredulously under his breath. Every time, he acted as though it was his first time hearing Donnacha pronouncing that specific word in that specific way.

“But this – this right here –” Donnacha flattened the empty wrapper between his thumbs and stretched it tight, so that the words lay flat and the pattern unrumpled. “This is pure childhood joy for me.”

Henry’s desk chair creaked as Henry shifted his weight, bracing his hands on the armrests. He looked vaguely uncomfortable, and Donnacha was about to ask him if something hurt, but was cut off.

“You had those a lot,” Henry asked, “as a kid?”

“Every weekend, after mass,” Donnacha nodded, chewing quickly so he could swallow. “Da’d stay at the church because he’d be talking to the priest, and Mammy had this group of friends who would stand and smoke just down the road, and they’d – they’d give me and Aoife some pocket money, and…”

He took a break to swallow again, saliva filling his mouth as the sweet aftertaste lingered.

“And the two of us, we’d hightail it down the road, to the corner shop,” he said. “The shop owner was called Mrs. Breathnach, and she always took her time coming down to open up after mass, but me and Aoife were always the first ones waiting for her, and she used to know our favourites off by heart, so she’d be unlocking the shop and rattling off, ‘a Dip Dab for Aoife Ní Mhurchú, a Macaroon for Donnacha Ó Murchú, and one carton of milk’. Mammy always got us to pick up the milk as well, so there’d be milk for Sunday tea…”

He was quickly realising that there was no satisfying end to this story, no way for him to whip up the words to properly convey why these were such important memories.

Henry had stopped working altogether and was looking at him from the desk chair. His dull green eyes were unreadable as always behind his glasses, especially in the low lighting and with the computer screen glare reflected in the lenses.

“Sorry.” Donnacha swallowed again, realising his cheeks were burning and his stomach was doing flips. He took a bite of chocolate. “I’m rambling like my Uncle Seán at Christmas dinner.”

“It’s okay –”

Donnacha gestured towards the computer screen. “Do you not need to get your work done, so we can watch this movie?”

Henry was silent for a couple of seconds. Donnacha genuinely didn’t feel like chatting anymore, and he was really hoping that Henry wouldn’t push the subject. But he thankfully turned his chair back towards the desk and took the computer mouse in his hand.

After a little while, Henry reached for the chocolate bar that Donnacha had placed aside for him. He undid the wrapping so that there were no tears down the side, no damage done to the text or the design. His careful precision brought a private smile to Donnacha’s face.

“Want to finish it?” Henry asked after eating the quarter that he’d broken off.

“Aw. Do you not like it?”

“It’s nice,” Henry said, “but I’m still full from dinner.”

Donnacha pressed his lips together as he eyed the chocolate in Henry’s hand. His throat was dry, and his stomach was now pulsing with pain. “Wrap it back up. Have it later.”

Once again, he expected Henry to refuse, especially since he didn’t seem overly enamoured with the bar in the first place, but thankfully he nodded and folded the wrapper down over the open side. He went back to tapping away with his computer mouse.

Donnacha sank back a little on the bed, trying to find a comfier position that didn’t place too much pressure on his stomach. He started to reach for another chocolate bar but stopped himself.

“You’ve gone quiet,” Henry remarked after a notable amount of time had passed. “What’s wrong?”

“What d’you mean? You asked me to be quiet.”

“Never usually stops you.” Henry sat back in his chair, reaching up under his pumpkin hood to scratch his scalp. “Can I ask you a question?”

“’Course you –”

“Why did you stop telling the story about these bars?”

“Because – because it wasn’t really a story,” Donnacha frowned. “There wasn’t anything else to tell, and I didn’t want to just keep… you know, rambling on.”

“That word again.” Henry’s voice dropped to a whisper. “Do I ramble on when I talk to you about work, or movies, or my life, or whatever?”

Donnacha frowned. “No?”

“But that’s what it felt like you were saying. Do I tell you too much? Because it feels as though you never tell me anything about yourself.”

“There’s… not much to know –”

Henry scoffed loudly, a sound Donnacha had not expected to hear from him. It set his teeth on edge, and the sensation was uncomfortably similar to the hurt that flared up when he thought about Payton and Autumn.

“You don’t tell me shit either,” he said. He was trying for a calm, measured tone, but somehow managed to sound like a sulking child. Like he’d gone into the corner shop and they were all sold out of Macaroons –

“What?” Henry choked out.

You – you never told me why you stopped going out, why you stopped being Lavender, why you stopped bringing dates here… Donnacha’s stomach turned over, and he was hit with the sudden realisation that he might be sick. The back of his hand hovered towards his mouth. How the hell could he even have considered saying that? How could he compare the details of his silly little life story with... whatever it was that had kept Henry locked up at home for so long?

He was just grateful he’d managed to bite his tongue before speaking.

“I’ve upset you.” A dry hitch in Henry’s voice. “I’m sorry.”

“No, no, Hen, it’s not – it’s not about that.”

His breath caught in his throat, heat swelling in his cheeks, as his insides gave an uneasy shift. It mightn’t have been so bad – in fact, it relieved a little pocket of pressure in his belly – if it hadn’t sounded like a lawnmower engine trying to take off. No denying it now.

“Pain in my stomach,” Donnacha admitted, massaging his side. “Right here.”

Henry turned his head, just slightly, and Donnacha caught sight of the look on his face. Something more than a sneer, something less than an eye roll. And his eyes were trailing close to the packets of chocolate bars that sat next to Donnacha on the bed.

“What?” Donnacha demanded.

“No comment.”

“You think I did this to myself.”

Henry turned back to his screen. “No comment.”

“And no sympathy either, I take it.” Donnacha sighed and pressed a little harder into his belly as he rubbed. The pain was warm, tight, tucked right up under his ribs. It felt a little like bloating, without feeling overly full. Like all of the chocolate had clumped together in his stomach and was sitting like a dead weight.

“I never said that, now, did I?”

Donnacha looked up to see that Henry was actually shutting his computer down. “Oh... you’re done?”

“Mmm. Yeah. Let’s go with that,” Henry said, which suggested to Donnacha that he wasn’t actually finished, but Donnacha was too relieved to make an argument. He hadn’t really acknowledged it, but the main thing getting him through the day had been this – time with Henry, time in which neither of them had to pretend that they were something they weren’t, or less than they were.

Henry spun his hair to the side and eased himself to his feet, wincing as he unfurled his legs. It suddenly felt silly – insensitive, even – for Donnacha to be complaining about something as fleeting and, yes, self-inflicted, as a belly ache.

“Are you okay?” Donnacha asked, half-rising from his position on the bed. “Is – is your hip...?”

“My hip’s fine,” Henry said as he sat down heavily on the edge of the mattress, one arm extended in Donnacha’s direction. “Come here.”

Donnacha exhaled and allowed himself to sink into Henry’s embrace, to enjoy the feeling of soft waves of hair brushing against his own. His own was short, aerodynamic, clipped and primed for always being on the move, while Henry’s had an air of messiness, of softness, of a way of living that involved no urgency.

Good, Donnacha thought with an odd flare of protectiveness. With all the pain and hardship that he’d been through, Henry deserved that kind of life.

A hand pressing against his belly made Donnacha groan and cuddle in closer, but shame pushed against the warmth in his chest.

I was supposed to be taking care of you.

Donnacha heard himself let out a whine, and his cheeks flushed. In an almost instantaneous response, Henry wrapped his arm tighter around Donnacha’s waist, tucking his face into Donnacha’s hair.

“How about you just try to get some sleep.” Another question that wasn’t a question. An offer that Donnacha wanted to sink into. Henry’s arm trembled against his ribcage, but he kept the hug going.

Donnacha shook his head, hair bristling against Henry’s stubbled chin. “Let’s watch The Nightmare Before Christmas.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” Donnacha rubbed at his eyes and tried to sit up a little, resisting the urge to let his body curl around the sickly pain beneath his abs. “I might need a few more belly rubs, though, if you’re up for the job.”

Henry clicked his tongue in the back of his throat and pressed a quick, passing kiss to the side of Donnacha’s forehead. “Of course you do.”

#Lucverse Donnacha #sickfic #stomach ache fic #stomach ache #hurt comfort #hurt and comfort #Lucyverse #Lucyverse Henry #platonic caretaking

8 notes · View notes

angstyaches · 1 year

Note

“i know your sick but… maybe we can cuddle? watch a movie?” said by Donnacha to Henry?

Word Count: 2,094

Dialogue Prompt List

CW: emeto (the actual emeto part is very briefly mentioned, I'm sorry), stomach noises, belly rubs, food, platonic cuddling, stressed caretaker.

___

Henry shoved back the top half of the duvet, since it was obscuring his view of who was standing in his room. He also didn’t have his glasses on. But he was fairly sure that only one of his flatmates would burst in while his room smelled faintly of vomit.

“Oh, shit,” someone whispered. “Were you sleeping?”

“Donnacha?” The hard k scraped at the back of Henry’s throat and his lungs pinched. It felt like his oesophagus had been wrung out and twisted to within an inch of its existence.

“Yeah. You okay?”

Henry’s hand flailed lazily, in search of his glasses. He lifted his head a little bit so he could put them on, and the effort of it all left him feeling like a puddle of jelly. Donnacha stood, backlit by the hallway light, in tracksuit bottoms and a hoodie.

“I’m still sick,” Henry croaked as a warning. He eyed Donnacha with no small amount of envy. “I don’t have a farm boy’s immune system like someone I know.”

“I know you’re sick, but… do you want to cuddle?” Donnacha folded his arms, unfolded them again, and shoved them in the pockets of his tracksuit, like he didn’t know what to do with them. “Maybe we could watch one of your Gibbly-Jibbly movies?”

Henry squinted up at him from his pillow. He nudged his glasses into place with his forefinger. “My whatty-what movies?”

Donnacha shrugged. “You’re always telling me I’ve gotten the name wrong, so I’ve decided to just say both from now on.”

“Right.” Henry stifled a yawn. It suddenly occurred to him that he was topless, but somehow, that didn’t really matter. “It’s Ghibli, by the way.”

“See?” Donnacha flicked one hand like he was batting away a fly. “Even when you’re sick, you’re correcting me.”

“Oh, relax,” Henry grumbled, sitting upright. He rolled his eyes as Donnacha started retreating towards the hall. “Donnacha, come back.”

Donnacha eyed him sidelong from the doorway. “Why? You’re just gonna keep bullying me.”

“I’m not bullying you. Stop complaining,” Henry grumbled, easing himself up onto his side and trying not to audibly groan as his joints protested. “I’m the sick one.”

“You’re getting up?”

Attempting to. “Mmm.”

Donnacha followed Henry’s gaze towards the floor, where his cane had tipped over at some point since he’d last used it. Donnacha hurried to pick it up and hand it to him, and then instantly looked embarrassed.

“Sorry,” he said. “It’s not that I thought you couldn’t do it yourself, I was just –”

“Donnacha, it’s fine. Thank you,” Henry frowned, leaning on the cane while still seated. He nodded towards his cluttered desk chair as his body adjusted to being upright. “Can you grab a t-shirt and a jumper for me?”

“Yeah?” Donnacha replied tentatively.

He scratched the side of his head as he turned towards the pile of clothing that Henry had never bothered to fold and put away. One of the upsides about being sick in bed is that the rest of the furniture could easily be used as wardrobe space while it wasn’t in use.

“Um –”

Henry cracked a private half-smile at Donnacha’s reluctance. After spending so many years as Autumn’s boyfriend, he was probably nervous about making the wrong choice when it came to clothes.

“Anything’s fine,” Henry said.

Donnacha tossed him a grey t-shirt and a green cable knit jumper. Henry let his cane rest against the bedside locker and pulled the t-shirt on over his head.

A loud, swirling rumble came from the pit of his stomach while his face was still entangled in the fabric. Henry froze for a second, feeling it churn around nothing but air and whatever bile hadn’t already made it up his throat. He’d been curled up in bed for so long, it must have been a shock for his organs and muscles when he suddenly stretched both arms upwards.

He sheepishly pulled the t-shirt down over his pale belly. He half-glanced over at Donnacha, who didn’t react beyond a tight smile.

Henry managed to get his jumper on without agitating his stomach again.

He took a few deep breaths before committing to a standing motion. He hobbled forward on his cane and Donnacha stepped backwards, palms outstretched by his sides as though waiting for Henry to pitch forward and need catching.

Henry thought about protesting that he was okay, but there was something nice about having someone fuss about him. Besides, he was dizzy, and a little weak after losing so much of his stomach lining and lying in bed for so long.

“Has Lu been home?” he grunted as they reached the hallway.

“Nope.” Donnacha’s hand brushed Henry’s elbow. “She’s been hiding out since I caught the bug, and she hasn’t been back since.”

“Hiding out where? With whom?”

“No idea. She have a girlfriend right now?”

“Lucy doesn’t have girlfriends.” Henry made the mistake of glancing down the hallway and catching glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. The door was wide open. He looked absolutely ashen, and his beige-coloured cotton top made him look like a ghost that could have met his end over a century ago.

“What, never?” Donnacha asked.

“Unless she does and… never tells me.”

“Well, that’s not likely,” Donnacha assured him.

Insecurity still prodded at him, though. He and Lucy had been best friends since they were kids, and he liked to think of himself as unjudgmental in most – okay, some… okay, a few – areas. She wouldn’t have any reason to hide anything from him, at least not one that he could immediately think of.

Henry was panting slightly, fighting dizziness, by the time he reached the sofa. The cushions were just springy enough for his weight to sink into, letting him know he wouldn’t be rising again quickly anytime soon. It wasn’t just the stiffness in his joints; his body felt sapped. “Would you mind getting me a glass of water?”

“Yeah, no bother.” Donnacha made an incredulous face, as though he was appalled that Henry had asked politely instead of snapping his fingers and making a demand. He talked over his shoulder as he went towards the kitchen. “I know it’s late, but do you want something to eat as well? I didn’t see you come out of your room all day, so you must be starving.”

Remembering that hollow, acidic growl in his stomach, Henry placed a contemplative hand on in as he laid back against the sofa cushions. He felt horribly deflated after puking his insides out for two days, and he hadn’t had any waves of nausea in a few hours now.

“Maybe,” he mumbled.

“Hmm?” Donnacha called out from the kitchen.

“I said ‘maybe’.”

With no more follow-up questions to answer, Henry focused on stilling the swirling, pounding sensation in his head. He heard Donnacha opening and closing a few cupboards, humming something indistinguishable on the other side of the partition. The kettle bubbled and seemed to hum along with him.

Henry shook his head gently at himself. He wasn't one to romanticise the mundane, so he was going to blame this on the sickness and dehydration.

Donnacha came back through to him, carrying a glass in one hand and a mug in the other.

He started to put both down on the coffee table, but Henry sat forward and reached for the glass of water. He started drinking and couldn’t stop, even when it felt like his stomach was starting to knot up under the stress of so much liquid at once. He smacked his lips – which somehow felt even drier than before – as he finished, and looked up at Donnacha.

Donnacha raised his eyebrows.

“Um,” Henry smiled. “Could you –?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Thank you.”

As Donnacha went to refill the glass, Henry sat a little further forward to pick up the mug. He took it by the handle and supported the opposite side with a fingertip against the rim. The chicken scent was laced with preservatives, but it still made Henry’s cheeks water so hard they stung.

Donnacha placed the water on the table and eyed the mug in Henry’s hand. “Wish I could offer you something more interesting than a hot cup.”

“Yes,” Henry muttered. “I was truly hoping you were whipping up some foie gras back there.”

“Well, obviously, since the first thing they teach you in flight school is how to make foie gras.”

“Exactly.”

As Henry blew on the thin, steamy soup, Donnacha crouched on the living room floor and browsed Henry’s DVD collection for titles he hadn’t seen yet. They were all lined up – alphabetically by title, of course – in the lower half of the TV stand.

“How’s it going, by the way?” Henry asked softly. He knew he was bad at keeping track of what Donnacha had going on, and the past few days had meant he was even more out of the loop. “School.”

“It’s grand. Stressful, but exciting.” Donnacha paused. “Hey, is this one any good?”

Henry rocked his mug slightly, trying to divert a floating, formerly freeze-dried pea away from where he planned on taking his next sip. His glasses had started to steam up. “Yes.”

“You didn’t even look.”

“They’re all good, Donnacha. Otherwise, they wouldn’t be in my collection.”

“I’ll stick it on, so.”

Once the DVD was set up, Donnacha plopped himself to Henry’s left, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. He lifted an arm so that Henry could lean into him, and then wrapped the arm around Henry’s shoulders.

As he allowed himself to sink into the embrace, Henry found himself wishing he had a blanket to drape over himself; Donnacha’s warmth against his left side was so nice that his right side left cold by comparison. He didn’t want to make Donnacha get up again, so he just hoped the soup would warm him all the way up.

His appetite surfaced as he began to sip more eagerly. Some of the wobbly weakness in his arms and legs, plus the dizzying weight in his head, faded a little. His stomach began to shift a little as it filled up, but only to the point where Henry barely noticed it.

“Finished with that?” Donnacha asked.

Henry looked down at his mug, which was empty now, besides a few freeze-dried veggies that he’d strategically dodged. It barely held any warmth anymore, either. “Yeah.”

Donnacha put a hand out to take the mug. Henry caught glimpse of the display on Donnacha’s smart watch, and it made him frown.

“Is it not Saturday?”

Donnacha tilted his head as he leaned forward to prop the mug on the coffee table. “Yeah, it is.”

“Do you not have training in the morning?”

Donnacha’s expression became clouded as he settled back against the cushions. “Yeah, I do.”

“It’s –” Henry pointed towards the TV. “This film’s not going to be over until –”

“It’s grand, Hen.” Donnacha rubbed the side of Henry’s arm. “Do you want anything else?”

“No, I’m good.”

Donnacha smiled. “Cool.”

Henry swallowed against a nagging sensation in the pit of his belly. Concern, maybe; or perhaps he just needed to burp. “Any particular reason you’re so clingy tonight? I’m not complaining, I just…”

Donnacha shrugged. He brushed the tip of his nose against Henry’s hair. “Sometimes it’s just nice to hold someone.”

“It is…” Henry agreed in earnest, but still couldn’t help wondering if something was wrong.

Before he could even decide whether or not to keep questioning his friend, Henry’s stomach gurgled. He almost reacted as he would have if he’d been curled up alongside a date he’d snagged on an app – by coughing and trying to cover up the sound. But since even a fake cough would probably destroy his tender throat and oesophagus, he just sat still in his embarrassment.

Donnacha glanced away from the TV for all of 0.01 of a second, as though scouting out the exact position of Henry’s stomach so he could plant his hand on top of it. He absently rubbed it, back and forth, as he went back to watching the movie.

“The soup settling in okay?”

“Mmm,” Henry grunted. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

As the movie continued, Henry’s stomach started to ache. Horribly. Not to the same extent as it had during the very worst of the bug, but certainly as badly as it had at the very beginning.

Donnacha was still alternating between rubbing it gently, then letting his hand come to a stop for a while as though he’d temporarily forgotten what he had been doing, before starting up again. Henry wasn’t entirely sure that the pressure wasn’t making him feel worse, but did he really have the heart to tell him to stop?

Guilt mingled with the squelching mess of soup and acid in his belly.

He couldn’t even focus on the movie, or make himself care about whether or not Donnacha was enjoying it. Usually, he couldn’t help stealing glances at Donnacha’s expressions, but right now, it was taking everything just to sit still; and he was failing at that, too.

“Are you okay?” Donnacha asked.

Henry shifted his weight for the dozenth time in the past ten minutes.

“I’m just –” A dense weight pressed on Henry’s stomach, and he could now say for certain that it had nothing to do with Donnacha’s hand. He hoisted himself forward, hands on his knees to keep himself from slumping against the coffee table. “I-I might –”

His stomach lurched to shut him up. Shoulders trembling, Henry put out a hand to grab Donnacha’s. Relief washed over him when Donnacha jumped to his feet to help him up.

He had belched chicken hot cup down the front of his clothes before he’d even made it to the hallway.

#Lucyverse Henry #Lucyverse Donnacha #sickfic #emeto #emeto fic #emeto sickfic #OC sickfic #OC emeto #platonic caretaking #platonic OCs #hurt comfort #hurt and comfort

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