Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men. If I did, X3 never would have happened. I should also maybe mention that I do not own Gatorade. (Hey, it's my first time. Better safe than sorry.)

A Strange Time for Solidarity

I couldn't sleep.

And it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I had just returned from a long weekend visiting my family. Nothing.

Seriously, who was I kidding? I never slept well after a visit home. John could vouch for that. He didn't understand it, mind you, but he'd vouch for it. Loudly. Preferably somewhere public. Maybe he should try spending a weekend constantly lying to the people who love him, who are so proud of him, while his younger brother spends the entire time throwing him half-admiring, half-jealous glances from over his computer screen. But, like I said, that's not John's life. Never was. He wouldn't get it.

I twisted over onto my stomach, trying to get comfortable and failing miserably. Usually, after a weekend like this, I could be found in the kitchen scrounging ice cream, but not tonight. The idea of even eating dinner had made me feel ill. I didn't get why. It wasn't like this weekend had been any worse than the previous ones. I flipped over again onto my side, pulling my knees up under the covers and wishing for the extra blanket in my closet. Where did the sudden chills come from? And why couldn't I get comfortable? Had the stress of going home left a perpetual knot in my stomach or something? One that was getting tighter by the minute…

"Drake, your conscience is too loud. Turn it off," John muttered sleepily from across the room.

I opened my mouth to say some smart-ass comment right back, but then shut it tight. The knot in my stomach suddenly expanded, then started to rise up my throat. I finally understood this was so much more than my typical family-weekend guilt.

I tumbled out of bed and grappled for my trashcan, making it just in time.

"Gross," I heard, as a light flicked on. I risked a glance at the other bed and saw John sitting up, feet on the floor, staring at me. "When did this start?" he asked.

"Just-" I couldn't even get the sentence out before I started retching again.

" Oh." John suddenly sounded a bit guilty. "I meant to tell you. Stomach bug has been going around this weekend. You were helping Artie with his math homework earlier, right?" He didn't wait for my answer, seeing as how I couldn't exactly give one at the moment. "Well, he had it. It's just a 24-hour thing, but it got pretty nasty. Sorry."

I flipped him off. Hey, it wasn't like I could talk or anything.

"Well, I'm probably gonna get it now, so you've got your revenge." he responded. I finally paused, gasping in air. I felt absolutely miserable.

"Want me to get someone?" John asked, finally sounding appropriately concerned. Then he flashed me his trademark grin. "Want me to get Rogue?"

"No!" I said, as forcefully as I could. Rogue and I had just started getting serious a few weeks ago. There was no way she was ready to deal with sick boyfriend. There was no way I was ready for her to deal with sick boyfriend. And it wasn't like there was anything the teachers could do for this kind of thing, besides wait for it to stop. If it ever stopped. Whatever was in my stomach flipped over, and I booked it to the bathroom, which thankfully was just down the hall.

I fell down in front of the toilet and it all started over again. Only this time I felt like it would never stop. I only got a few seconds break before my body was jerking again with a fresh heave. My muscles, my stomach, my throat, they were all just reacting. I had zero control. I hated this. Hated it. Tears were soon rolling down my cheeks, my face burned, and I felt like I'd never get to breathe again.

"Damn." That was John's voice. He must have followed me in here. By this point there was nothing left in my stomach to throw up, so I was just dry heaving, which I figured had to be another word for "chocking", because that's what it felt like.

"Whoa," said John, his voice suddenly much closer to my ear. I felt his hand rest lightly on the back of my neck. Having my hot skin come into contact with his even hotter fingers wasn't exactly comfortable, but not having to be alone while I was puking out my toenails cut back the misery a little. "Hey, take it easy, ok? Just try and breathe," John said. I struggled to do as he asked. "Breathe," he commanded. I tried to clear my head, and managed to draw in one even breath.

"Good," said John. "Good. Just keep doing that. Just keep…find another one, Artie!" That last part sounded pretty irritated. I glanced towards the door and saw Artie standing there in his long johns, staring at me with wide eyes. "Move it, kid," John snapped. He missed the flash of blue tongue Artie gave us before he shot back out the door.

"I keep saying we should be sorted by age. They can have their own wing, maybe out back somewhere…" John muttered to himself as much as to me.

"Yeah…right," I said, having finally managed to get myself under control. " You like their…borderline hero-worship and…you…know it."

"What's your point? They don't have to live next to me to do that," he responded, pulling me up from the toilet a bit at the same time. "You ok now?" he asked, watching me warily. Wearily, I nodded. Satisfied that I wasn't going to explode all over him, he guided me back to lean against the tile wall. He snagged a towel off the rack, wet it in the sink, and thrust it to me. "Here." I wiped my face, mouth, and neck gratefully, then pulled my legs up and rested my face on my knees. I felt exhausted. And disgusting. And suddenly I hated the fact that I was here. My real bed, my mom, would have been so awesome right then. But that wasn't exactly a possibility. I felt my eyes get really hot; again my control was compromised. I shoved my face into my knees harder, because dammit, I wasn't doing this in front of John.

Lucky for me, he reached into his mood-bag of tricks and pulled out compassionate. "Hey," he said. "What's wrong?"

"I fucking hate this," I said, trying to sound as though it was just the puking I was talking about.

"Wow. I know it's serious when you use the f-word!" I could hear the mock disapproval in his voice, could picture the air quotes he was making with his hands, even though I wasn't looking at him. "It'll go away. No need to get all weepy on me. Just when you were starting to convince me you were such a badass too…"

I sighed and sat up a bit. "This whole weekend just sucked, ok?"

He looked at me for a second. I expected him to sigh dramatically and say something like "Well, at least some of us still have families!" Which he usually said just to guilt me into giving him his way, but now he was oddly silent. "Okay," he finally said, rubbing my shoulder a bit roughly and nodding. "Okay."

We just sat there for a bit, me scrubbing my face with the towel, and him sitting beside me with his hand still on my shoulder.

After some time, when it was pretty clear I was done exploding, John said, "Ready to go?" I nodded. Sitting there against the wall was starting to get pretty uncomfortable. He stood up first, and then offered me his hand, just like when he bested me during training, so it wasn't awkward. What was different was that he kept his hand on the back of my shoulder as we walked back to our room, like he was afraid I'd keel over or something. It wasn't often I got the benefit of this concerned-friend mood, so I didn't comment on it.

When we made it back, I sank onto my bed with a relieved sigh. I also happened to notice my trashcan had a clean bag in it, and there was a glass of bluish liquid on my bedside table. I couldn't keep quiet.

"Did you clean up my puke?" I asked, amazed.

John huffed. "Yeah. It stank. Dude, you so owe me." He followed my gaze towards the glass. "That's Gatorade. You should be able to keep it down. And dehydration's a bitch, so drink it."

For a while I didn't say anything. I mean, John was my best friend, but this type of thing was just so…un-John. "How did you…?" I stopped myself from finishing the question. This was so not the right time to spoil his mood.

He rolled his eyes. "I had a mom once, dumbass." We sat in awkward silence after that. We were both staring at our knees, but when I finally glanced at John's face, I was surprised to see he looked a bit…sad. Maybe he understands more than I thought.

"Well, thanks," I said sincerely before I cautiously pulled my legs up and under the covers, relieved when everything stayed where it was supposed to.

"Yeah, sure," John answered. He got into bed too, but instead of turning off his light, he pushed his pillows up so he could lean against the headboard, and grabbed a book off his nightstand. I watched him, smiling a bit, and then full out grinning when he noticed what I was doing.

The look he shot me was decidedly bitchy, probably because I'd just caught him blatantly caring. "Yeah, well, now that I'm up…" he said, flipping open his book. I didn't say anything. We both knew he was lying.

"Good night," I said, after pulling the trashcan a bit closer and draining the Gatorade. Thank you.

"Whatever, Drake," John replied, sounding distracted. You're welcome.