The room was cold. He was usually cold, yeah, but this time was different. It was freezing. Chilling. Cold. There was no other way to explain it. The air felt heavy on his shoulders and he felt as if he weren't getting enough air into his lungs. He was panting. It was loud in his ears. It echoed with the pulse of his Spark. His chest felt tight. It hurt. His stomach churned. Primus, he felt sick…
"Bee?"
He instinctively turned his head towards the noise, his eyes half-lidded as he tried to make sense of the spinning room. He registered the voice, but couldn't find strength to respond. His lips parted, as if to say something, but had no voice to project.
"Bee, ya'll 'right?"
The only thing he could do was let out a pained groan. His stomach felt like it was churning faster and he now KNEW he was going to be sick. But why the hell did he feel so bad? Had he caught a bug or something?
"Bee, answer me, wou'd ya?"
There was a hand waving in front of his face. He shut his eyes tightly and grit his teeth, turning his head to the side. "Ugh…" He groaned. He tried to bring up a hand to wipe the sweat off his forehead – how was he sweating? It was freezing in the room! – but it just fell back to the hardwood floor. He hardly registered the slight tingle going up his arm from the impact.
A hand rested on his forehead. It was warm. Warmer than the room. He wanted that warmth. He leaned to the hand, but it went away and he groaned again. "Cold…" Was he talking?
"Ya got a fever, Bee."
Fever? He couldn't have a fever. His body was cold and the room was getting colder. That didn't help. He didn't have a fever. There was no way. He had chills. Not a fever…
"A'right, come on, Bee. Up ya get."
He felt himself being lifted from the hardwood floor and away from the cabinet he had been propped up against and instead cradled against a thin, but strong body. He let out a small noise of displeasure as it made his head spin and his stomach feel like imploding. A banging began in the back of his head. It was nothing short of unpleasant. Which felt like the understatement of the century.
"Musta caught somethin', eh, Bee?"
He was being carried down the flight of stairs. He could tell with the funky drops he was experiencing. No, they were called irregular footsteps. Not funky drops. He let out another groan and felt a slight relief as he was laid down on the couch. Couch was soft. That was one improvement. The jerky footsteps hadn't helped the pounding in his head.
"Gonna get a cold compress for ya, Bee. Stay 'ere."
He found the strength to open his eyes and work on focusing. When things began to get a bit sharper, he saw a dark body move towards the kitchen, dark dreadlocks swinging with flashes of red, blue, and purple.
"Jazz…?"
Everything was still blurry.
"Yeah?"
Trust Jazz to be able to keep cool in any situation.
"Where… others…"
"The're on their way 'ere. 'Ad a mission while ya were a' school an' all."
Right. It was Friday. He had classes on Friday. Optimus never let him skip his classes. Not even for a mission, unfortunately. Good thing that this sickness came on after he got home. He didn't want to see the concerned look on everyone's faces if he had fainted in P.E. or something…
"Oh…" He took in a deep breath, but he felt as if nothing was put into his lungs. He let a hacking cough. It sounded harsh. Hoarse. Like his voice just moments before. He opened his mouth to say something – anything up to this point – but nothing came out. He shut his mouth. It felt dry. He swallowed, but that didn't help much.
He turned his head to look in the direction Jazz had gone, but everything was blurry again. It made the pounding in his head worse and he closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. He put enough strength in his arm to put a hand on his head, trying to use the pressure to ease the pounding that came from the medulla oblongata to his front temples.
A hand positioned itself over his own, moving it gently away from his forehead, and something cold was placed there instead. He shivered. It was colder than the room! Why was Jazz putting something cold on his body? He was freezing as it was!
He felt hands playing with his half-open jacket, attempting to undo the zipper and slide it off without removing the cold compress from his forehead. He tried to shift to get Jazz to quit it, but the man pushed his hands away.
"Gonna make yerself more sick, Bee," was the argumentative reply.
"Too cold…"
He shivered as the jacket was opened and removed from his shoulders while Jazz began speaking to him again. "An' yer gonna get worse if ya bundle up like this. Trust me, Bee."
He did. He did trust Jazz. A lot, actually. Jazz was his best friend and more; a comrade, a brother. He knew to take his words seriously when the times came and now was one of those times, he supposed.
He had forgotten, in those moments of conversation, about his churning stomach and it made itself known again, something pushing against his insides and beating them around. Everything seemed to blend together.
"Gonna… be sick…"
"Dun worry bout it; there's a trashcan right there if ya need it."
Something shifted and he heard the familiar noise of the trash bag rustling inside of the metal container right near his head. Apparently, Jazz had gotten it just in case. He made a mental note to thank him later, but soon forgot it as he turned around. No sooner than he had done so did his insides finally have enough of the beating and force poor Bee to empty everything he had in his stomach.
Jazz watched as his friend turned to the side and coughed before releasing a mixture of fluid and solids, right into the trashcan, sputtering. He placed a hand on the teenager's back as the boy emptied his stomach into the bin, trying to breathe at the same time. One hand kept the cold compress on Bee's head, as well as keeping the boy's long black antenna-like bangs away from his face, while the other kept him steady and even, as well as providing comfort Jazz knew Bee needed. Throwing up was never fun and it always helped to have someone around to help you.
It didn't take long – about two minutes by the clock – and Bee was lying on the couch again, on his back, facing the ceiling. He was panting quietly, everything seen in his eyes as undefined shapes in a white fog. He shivered every now and then. He wanted his coat back. But he knew to trust Jazz's judgment on this one.
There was a point in the unthreaded time he was on that couch that Jazz had helped him down a glass of water, if only to get the horrid taste out of his mouth. But mainly, it was if he got sick again, he would have something other than his stomach lining to throw up. It was hard at first, but coaxing and enough help on Jazz's part made it possible. Plus the slight humor in the other's voice made Bee want to agree. Jazz always helped lighten up the situation if Bee couldn't. That was the one of the many great things about him.
It wasn't long before the fever had tired him out enough to fall asleep. That had been around the time the others got back and Bee had fallen asleep to Jazz's conversation with the others on how he was sick.
It was one of those many times Bee was glad to have Jazz around when he needed someone the most.