Dedicated to my friend's sickness and love of American Idiot. She's worth a 2k story.

By the time St. Jimmy is kissing the top of my head and bidding me goodbye for the rest of the night, I am too enraptured trying to figure out what he rates on the Dick scale – an impressive 8.9 or just a mere 8.6 – to really respond.

People like Jimmy don't have the concept of "partying too hard" or at least, "partying so hard they can barely move when it's time to go to the bar the next night." I was still shaking, and I couldn't remember eating anything in the last two days, but my stomach was fizzing and bubbling over with the mix of narcotics from last night, and the painkillers from today.

"What do you mean you can't go out?" Had been Jimmy's initial response. I tugged the musty comforter over my head.

"I mean I'm trying not to throw up as I'm talking to you." I heard the rattle of a pill bottle hitting the bed.

"Take those,"

"I did."

"How many?"

"Two."

"Oh, well, take more."

"I don't think Advil works that way,"

"Puss,"

"Go by yourself." I offered, I didn't feel like yelling at my roommate, if only for fear of my stomach and head, not so much that someone as full of himself as Jimmy didn't deserve a good verbal beating every once in a while… or, well, more like three times a day.

He shrugged. "Yeah, good idea. I haven't gone solo in a month, I could use a break." Like I was the kid being half-heartedly dragged by the older brother to wherever his friends were. Like I was a burden on him.

"You're a dick."

"On a scale of one to ten…" He buzzed around the room, pulling on shoes and a few garments that at least looked warm. February sucked – it really did. "Goodnight, Johnny Cakes – don't die on me, at least, not in the apartment. I don't have a carpet I can roll you up in." Then he kissed my hair, and I was rating him on dickishness.

The door slammed, rattled my head even more and I thought, Hell, and bumped him all the way up to a solid nine, before rolling over into the fetal position.

It was two fifteen, I had migrated to the couch, the door and kitchen to my left, and a worthless little TV set to my right. For now, it was off. I was contemplating whether or not I would open the door and check to see if it was snowing or not. Maybe I would go out, and have a bit of fun myself. My head was still foggy – like I was in a dream, like I was high – and there was a deep set ache in my muscles to go with the bags under my eyes, but I felt better.

It hit me how bad I must've been before, if my pathetic state was already an improvement. It made me think about what Will and Tunny were doing, and that girl… it made me wonder, if anything out of Jingletown was waiting for me, a place where my head wasn't always spinning and I didn't need a waste basket nearby at all times.

I heard some muffled steps, outside. Some swearing. I sat up, and looked to the door.

It rattled, more swearing.

A knock.

"Hello?"

"Yeah?" I called back.

"Is someone there? Saint said he lived here," Oh, shit. My feet were acquainted with the cold floor, and my face felt a blast of cold air as the door creaked open. Through the chain, I could make out one of St. Jimmy's 'followers' his eyes were red, and his breathing was heavy. He only had a cheap sweatshirt on, and it looked like he was sweating. Probably just starting to come off his high and that was the only reason he had enough sense to listen to bring Jimmy home.

He, unlike my worst fears, was not passed out, or bleeding from a bullet wound or just dead in the dirty snow. He was standing – swaying, like the wind would flip him onto his back – and looking sick.

No, sick didn't even cover it, but for right now, the word would have to try.

"What happened?" I asked, hauling him inside. I almost felt triumphant, looking at him groaning on the couch, as if the whole thing was karma for not feeling bad for leaving me alone. I thought I should feel shocked – but Jimmy getting sick from an over dose or near alcohol poisoning? Yeah, I wasn't that easily thrown for a loop.

"I don't know," the guy was panicking, like I was going to turn and throw something at him in a second. "I think… Drugs? I don't know, he wouldn't… he just said to take him home…" He festered around a bit, I heard him shifting, imagined his eyes darting around.

"Yeah, okay. I'll take care of him."

"Can I..?" He stuttered. "I mean, he promised…for the help-" I dug through Jimmy's pants and through a little bag of white powder to the addict. Whatever to make him shut up.

"Try and trade that for a warmer jacket or something," I offered, he nodded, and I knew he wouldn't. It was worth at least mentioning, though. I shut the door as he left, not bothering to see if he had a car or not.

The fallen Saint was groaning and grasping his stomach. I pushed the coffee table out of the way, and put a half filled garbage pail by his head.

In the fridge I found beer cans, beer bottles, some vodka, ketchup, and flat seltzer water next to the empty bottle of gin no one had bothered to throw out. That would have to do, I supposed. There were some stale crackers in one of the cabinets; I grabbed them and the painkillers off my mattress.

"Hey," I said, settling down on the coffee table. "What happened?"

"I'm thirsty…" Jimmy whined, and shifted. He looked like he was too hot for his own skin.

"Are you cold?"

"Yeah…" I threw my comforter on him – it had been lying on the ground from when I got up. He huddled inside it. "I don't know what happened…"

"Do you have a fever?" I put a hand to his neck, it was damp with sweat, clammy; hot. "Yep. Maybe it's the flu?"

"The flu," he whispered, as if not believing it.

"Yeah, the flu. You know, body aches, fever – throwing up? At least, hope it's that flu where you just throw up. 'Cause the other one lasts a week, and you need a prescription to get better." Even if we could afford to go to the doctors, we might as well just ram into a police car; we'd end up in the same place.

"I think I'm gonna puke." He muttered, sitting up slowly.

"Oh thank God-" He lurched, and I smelt the acidic grossness of vomit as it hit the garbage. We were both gagging, and once he had finally finished coughing up bile, he flipped me the bird and demanded pain killers.

I tossed him the pill bottle, and the seltzer, before trying to figure out what to do about Jimmy's puke bucket.

"Are you dead yet?"

"No," St. Jimmy rolled over on his own bed, sweatshirts and towels piled over him as makeshift blankets. "And don't sound so hopeful, either."

"I'm the one who has to babysit – and make sure you don't, you know, throw up in your sleep and choke on your vomit or anything."

"Fuck you,"

I sat down on the bad, patting my roommate on the back. "I'll get right on that."

Jimmy had stopped throwing up hours ago, but he still refused to leave the bed. Once I had told him was eleven at night, Jimmy just tried to shoo me away, telling me to go out and have some fun.

"Go to a bar an' get wasted for me,"

"But you couldn't come."

He rolled his eyes. "So? I'll be fine…" He crossed his eyes, staring up at my hand pressing against his warm forehead. "I'm not ten, Mom."

"Yeah, I know." Jimmy raised his eyebrow at my quiet voice. I studied his face – eyeliner scrubbed clean, eyes dilated, pores visible.

"Are you sure you're not sick? You're getting all… weird."

"…You're weird." I lamely replied.

"You're shitty at comebacks."

"Look, my Mom was shit at being a parent, but she at least made sure I didn't die of dehydration when I had the flu, okay? So shut up."

The room was silent for a total of five seconds.

"Wow," Jimmy said. "When did your period start? I hope you picked up some tampons when you went to the store earlier,"

"Maybe I will go out; I think I've earned it." I was standing and about to leave, before I felt his hand grasp mine.

"Hey, I was joking. Go out if you want to – whatever, just don't get all pissed at me." He put on a mocking face of a weak and hapless patient. "Please, I need your help to continue living!" I thought for a few serious moments he was going to get a southern accent and bat his eyelashes at me – all he did was fall back on the bed with a springy creak. We stared at one another again, before I doubled over laughing. He chuckled a few times, too; stretching his tired face to flash bright teeth.

I decided to stay in another day.

"Hey, Johnny?" I was hunting around for quarters to use at the dry cleaners down the street. I had ignored most of Jimmy's germ infested shirts for half the week, and had quarantined them into a garbage bag. But now those were starting to reek and I wondered if the stomach acid could eat through the cotton.

"Yeah?"

"I think I'm better, now."

"Oh." I turned and saw him leaning on the door frame. His eyeliner was freshly applied; not even smudged from the long hours or itchy eyes, yet. His face got its normal paleness back, and he was damp from the shower. He had some jeans on, and held a slowly burning cigarette in his right hand as he looked at me. "That's good," I managed. I had kind of gotten used to lazing around, and checking up on Jimmy like he was a little kid that needed my help. Maybe I really did want to play Mom, like Jimmy kept on accusing me of.

Well, no, not that. Definitely not that. God no, I was a man. I just liked the idea of knowing that for once, Jimmy depended on me. If I wanted to get high or have a good time I went to my roommate, but if he wanted to get better? I was the only one who probably still had enough brain cells out of all his friends and worshippers to do that.

I realized that sounded kind of fucked up.

Then I saw Jimmy grinning at me as I just stared dumbly up at him. I had taken a seat on the foot of the bed, I realized. And now Jimmy was just watching me, waiting until the last of his smoke died out before he smothered it against the peeling bedroom wall.

He was moving towards me. He didn't really look happy, but he didn't look angry, either. It was a certain look, and I compared it to a cat as I slowly backed up on the bed, until I hit the wall with a hollow thud.

Now Jimmy was by my ear.

"I was in bed all week," he said in a complaining tone. It was an exaggeration, and I didn't hesitate to remind him that it had only been three days that he was out of commission.

He gave me that "shut up, I'm trying to be awesome" look.

"I still didn't get any action," he reminded me.

Well, I knew where this was going.

So, maybe I got a power rush out of Jimmy catching the flu, and that was definitely not the base of a healthy relationship or whatever, but hey, for as screwed up as I was, at least Jimmy doubled it in comparison.

I guess we were both kind of fucked up.

Jimmy kissed the top of my hair again before settling on top of me. I smiled.

Oh well.

[End]