Do you know the feeling, when your innards hurt so bad, your body starts to shake? You tremble, you sweat, you feel overwhelmingly sick. You feel hot, you feel cold, you feel both and neither at the same time. This is exactly, how Freddie Baxter felt when returned home one evening.
In most cases this atrocious phenomenon turns out to be influenza of some sort. Sometimes, it is something else altogether…
He called their names- all of them. Yes, even his. He hissed a curse in his Manchester accent, as his feet threatened to give in beneath him. Freddie managed to clamber up the remaining iron stairs, before he actually went to his knees.
"Oh for fuck's sakes! Is nobody in?!" the boy choked. Suddenly, the sound of a door. Quickly, Freddie scrambled to his feet. Despite his pitiful state, he wanted to maintain his pride. His pride was more important than anything else in this bloody, fucked-up life! After all, it was all that he had left.
A middle-aged, short, bearded man poked his head around the corner. Freddie had hoped- prayed, in his very own way, that Henry would not be there; but as luck would have it, he was the only one in.
"My god, Freddie! You look terrible! What happened?" He rushed towards the ill boy, like a penguin with an egg between its legs. A result from his endless insecurities. As much as Freddie hated him, he had to admit, that this was a very positive aspect about Henry: Even though he lusted after him like Socrates after Plato, he would never dare to touch him without permission.
"Help me…." He choked again. Henry was just about to answer, when Freddie's gaze froze, fixed on a spot unknown to anyone. Another curse. Then, he gathered all his strength and broke into a sprint towards the bathroom.
God knows, the Warehouse was not a quiet place. There were voices: shouting, laughing, singing, crying. There were moans and thuds from all directions. The creaking of floorboards or iron was omnipresent. On Fridays and Saturdays, there were parties, with music, thumps and steps- parties, where all the aforementioned sounds melted into one, cheerful (but alcoholic) event.
And after the parties? Well, Sundays were the quietest days. All that could be heard were muffled pleas for aspirin, or the odd choke, or cough from the direction of the toilet. Henry was proud to say, that he was never one of them. He would go out, or listen to music, or watch a movie. Sometimes, but only sometimes, he would look after Dean.
There were chokes now too, and they were coming from the bathroom alright, but what Henry heard there was not the result of "one too many". He had heard enough hangovers to be entirely certain about that.
The sounds stopped. Henry was standing by the bathroom door now, feeling awkward. He had no idea what to do or say. He just waited.
Finally, the bathroom door opened and a battered, pale Freddie looked at him with glassy eyes.
"Come here- let me help you…" Henry suggested in his ever kind voice.
Grudgingly, Freddie put an arm around Henry's shoulder. He was brought to his bedroom, where he immediately lay down. Henry, who was standing in the doorframe, straightened his back and turned to leave. He was forced to turn around again by Freddie's voice which was unusually feeble and silent. "Henry…don't leave me…please…"