You're sick.
You know it the moment you open your eyes.
Everything hurts. Your head, your bones, your teeth, your hair. You push yourself up with shaky arms and reach to turn off the blaring alarm clock.
You swing your legs over the edge of the bed and brace you hands on your knees.
Marty yawns loudly and stretches. He sits up too. "Morning," he greets.
You grunt in his general direction, not trusting yourself to open your eyes as you breathe deeply through your nose.
It's quiet for a moment, and then: "You alright, man?"
You're not.
Your stomach is rolling, and oh God, you just know you're going to throw up. "I'm not" —you swallow hard— "I'm not feeling…"
Bile rising in your throat causes you to trail off and you fight the urge to gag. This sudden onslaught of sickness his caught you completely off-guard. You open your eyes, desperately searching for something to vomit in, but there are black dots compromising your vision.
Thankfully, Marty comes to the rescue.
Like he always does.
"Pony?" he questions nervously, and suddenly he's there, crouching in front of you. His hand cups your knee. "What's the matter?"
You don't answer him, afraid to open your mouth. But he understands when you dip your head and a strangled sound escapes from your throat.
"Okay," he says quickly. Calmly.
He jumps up to grab the trashcan by the door, and then he's back, positioning the can in front of you, and helping you bend forward. He has one hand behind your back, the other supporting your chest.
"Geez, Ponyboy, your shirt is soaked through," he comments gently. "You're really sick, huh?"
You nod, breathing deeply, praying that the nausea will pass without having to revisit your dinner from last night.
It doesn't work.
Saliva pools in your mouth and the nausea wins out.
The upheaval is long and drawn out, as the contents of your stomach arrive in numerous retches. The exertion makes you dizzy and you have to fight to stay conscious as you continue to gag and choke up bile.
Marty's hold on you is unwavering. He doesn't speak during the time you're physically ill. He just tightens his grip on you, knowing that you aren't able to keep upright under your own steam.
When it stops, when it finally stops, and you're reduced to just spitting the remaining saliva into the bin, Marty pats you on the back. "Disturbing performance, man," he says. "You good?"
You spit one last time and nod. "I think so."
"Alright, let's lean you back, okay?"
You're too exhausted to help, so you let Marty do all the work. He lifts your legs back up on the bed and pulls you back to lean against your pillows. The room is spinning around you and there's a ringing in your ears.
Marty reaches an arm out to palm your forehead and curses under his breath. "You're running a fever, man."
You already knew that, based on the ache of your bones and the unrelenting shivers that are running through your body. You were hit hard, and fast, with whatever this is, and it's taking you down.
"Just relax for bit, man, I'll be right back." Marty straightens up and tucks the water bottle from your desk under his arm. Then he heads for the door, taking the soiled trashcan with him.
"Don't," you protest weakly. "I'll take care of that."
Marty snorts a laugh. "Good one, Pony. Don't move, okay?"
He taps the doorframe and gives you a reassuring smile before disappearing into the hallway.
You close your eyes, try to ignore the pounding in your head, and wonder what you did to deserve a roommate as remarkable and loyal as Marty.
xxx
You open your eyes to Marty lightly shaking your shoulder. You must have dozed off while he was gone.
"Hey, you okay?" he asks, when you focus your eyes on his face.
"Yeah," you rasp out. "Jus' tired."
"Yeah, man. I bet." Marty holds out your water bottle that he filled up. "Think you can handle some of this?"
You're not sure, but you're thirsty, so you take the bottle from him and manage a few tentative sips. "Don't you have to get to class?" you ask after you've swallowed. You set the bottle down on the table next to your bed.
"I've got some time," he assures you. "Want to make sure you're okay before I go."
"I'm okay," you say, even though you feel quite the opposite. "Just caught the flu or somethin'." It's been ages since you've had the flu, and you can't remember ever feeling this dreadful.
"Yeah, or somethin'," Marty agrees, looking at you critically. "Want to change your shirt?"
You nod, so he helps you pull the sweat-soaked garment over your head. You shiver violently as your skin is exposed to the air.
Marty throws the soiled shirt into your hamper and pulls a fresh one from the top drawer of your dresser. He tosses it to you.
It's one of Soda's old Beatles shirts. He handed it down to you when he grew out of it. You pull it on quickly, wishing Soda was here with you now. You've never been sick without him close by.
"I'm proud of you for not flipping out right now," Marty says, as he starts pulling on his own clothes to get ready for the day.
"What do you mean?"
"Two weeks ago you would have lost it at the just the thought of missing class."
"Yeah, well, live and learn," you say. After doing well on your midterms, classes don't stress you out so much. And now, missing class because you're sick doesn't seem like too big of a deal.
Marty grins. "Looks like we're gonna have to postpone celebrating surviving our midterms, huh?"
You groan and run your hands through your hair. It was true. You'd both done extremely well on your midterms and you'd promised Marty you'd go out with him and some other guys from the track team tonight to celebrate. "Yeah, sorry man."
Marty shrugs. "Next weekend?" he says hopefully.
"Deal."
Marty grabs his jacket off the hook on the door and then bends down to pull on his backpack. "Get some rest while I'm gone, okay? I'll be back as soon as class lets out."
He rattles off some more instructions. Drink some more water if you can, don't get up unless you have to, trashcan is right here by your bed.
And then he's gone, leaving you to fall into a deep, fevered sleep.
xxx
When Marty returns from his classes, he finds you awake, groaning as clutch you head with your hands. You'd woken with the worst headache of your life – like someone had taken a hammer and slammed it between your eyebrows. You've thrown up again, all over your sheets, because you were too disoriented to find the trashcan.
"Oh my gosh, Pony!" Marty exclaims as he takes in the sight of you. He drops his backpack and comes to your aide. "What's the matter?" he asks, pulling the soiled sheets off of your body.
"Head," you manage to grit out.
Marty puts a tentative hand on your back and you whimper in pain, because the sensation of being touched causes the pain in your head to skyrocket.
"Shit, I'm sorry, Pone," Marty apologizes. "Listen, you're really sick. I'm going to get help, okay?"
You open your eyes, but can't answer him. It hurts too badly, and you're hot, and the room is caving in around you…
Marty's concerned face is the last thing you see before everything goes black.
xxx
When you wake up again, it doesn't take you long to figure out where you are. There is a faint beeping noise beside you, and every part of your body hurts. The bed you're laying in is small and doesn't feel like the one you're used to. You try to sit up, but your head feels like it weighs a thousand tons.
Your eyes come into focus, and as expected, you're in a hospital room. You've visited the hospital enough over the course of your lifetime to know when you're in one. You manage to turn your head to the side, and to your surprise, you find yourself looking at Soda. He's asleep in the armchair next to your bed.
"Soda," you say, but your voice comes out in a hoarse croak, and he doesn't stir. You try again. "Soda."
He opens his eyes sleepily, but springs into attention once he realizes you're awake. "Hey, Ponyboy!" he says happily, reaching forward to grab your hand. "You're awake!"
"Yeah…" you say softly. "What happened? What're you doing here?"
"You're really sick, kid." Soda runs his hand through your hair. "Your roommate called me an' Darry and we drove down here in a heartbeat."
You frown. "What's wrong with me?"
Soda sighs. "We're still trying to figure that out. The doctors have some theories, but haven't come up with a definite diagnosis yet." He squeezes your hand. "How're you feeling?"
Numb. Tired. Stiff. "Not too good." You struggle to sit up and can't do it under your own steam. Soda helps you. "My head doesn't hurt as bad, though."
Soda nods knowingly. "Yeah, they've got you on some pain meds," he says, and you're suddenly aware of the IV in your arm.
Thank God for that.
"Where's Darry?" you ask.
"He's with Marty. They're getting some dinner down in the cafeteria. That kid hasn't eaten all day." Soda is quiet for a moment. "I think you really scared him today, Pone. You scared all of us."
You swallow hard. "M'sorry," you whisper. "I-I'm glad you're here, Soda."
"Me too, kid."
xxx
Viral meningitis.
That's what the medical professionals deduce your condition to be. The giveaway is when they ask you to touch you chin to your chest, and you can't do it without screaming out in agony.
So much for the flu.
You stay overnight in the hospital, but they release you the next day. There isn't much they can do for you that you can't do at home. They prescribe pain medication and steroids and rest.
A whole week of rest.
Bed rest.
Which means you'll be missing an entire week of classes.
You might not have been worried about missing one day of classes, but an entire week? That's a different story.
Darry and Soda take you home. Home home, so that they can keep an eye on you. And that way Marty can get back to his classes without having to check up on you all the time.
It's a slow process, but you do recover. Gradually, the ache leaves your bones, your headache dulls, your appetite returns.
You're ready to return to school by the end of the week, with the promise to Darry that you'll still take it easy.
On your last night at home, Two-Bit pulls you aside.
"You know, Pony…" he says with a smirk on his face. "I know you missed us and everything, but the next time you want to see us, just phone us and we'll come visit you. You don't have to get deathly ill or nothin'."
He punches you lightly in the shoulder and you laugh. A big, hearty laugh that hasn't escaped your lips in ages.
After being so sick, it feels good to laugh like that again.
"I'll keep that in mind."