Ohcrapohcrapohcrap! Shit.

Your eyes are still on John, and behind the shades, in the darkness, and through the flashing strobe lights, you see his lips move.

He's mouthing something and you can tell it's urgent with the way his eyes are wide and frantic, and the various hand motions that actually make it hard to recognize what he's trying to tell you.

You squint harder behind your aviators to make out what he's saying, and you finally catch it and piece it together.

Wing it, he says, forming the syllables a bit sloppily with his buck teeth in the way. He forms an invisible ice cream cone in his hand and then coughs into it.

Something clicks into place and you know you're going to have to thank John for this later. Not that you couldn't have come up with something like this without his help.

Good thing I'm a Strider, You think precariously, as you take the time to plan a devious smile, and cough into the mic again, this time hitting the record button, and playing it on repeat.

"It's time to kick this up a notch," you smoothly whisper devilishly into the mic.

Soon the cough is appearing every five seconds, and you start adding some odd, but matching beats to cover up the mistake, making it seem like the whole thing is one pounding heartbeat.

The rhythm throbs and the strobe lights flicker to match the pulsating music, adding to the flashing effects. You've gotten the audience captivated, and you know it.

At first, they stare, dumbfounded. The next moment, they're off their chains like thirsty bloodhounds, howling their approval. Another quick glance into the crowd, and you spot the blue saucers you're so fond of: John's eyes.

They're round and disbelieving.

He knows that you made a small trip, but hell, you came back swaggering more than before. All the anxiety is gone now, and you let yourself be carried away with the pounding of the music, the rough hacking of the crowd as they "sing along" to your "cough".

The crowd's whoops and cheers follow you off the stage and into the dressing room, where you can finally sit down. Closing the door behind you, the screams from your fans become muffled and distant.

Makes you wonder whether it's the cold or if it's just that the acoustics suck down here.

Placing your awesome little ass on the director's chair, you reach into your apple juice basket (as you now call it) and pull out a box, inserting the straw and sipping slowly.

Soon, you space out, and the world sharpens again when the door to your dressing room bursts open, making you splutter a bit while you drink the third last box of apple juice from the basket.

A beaming John is standing in the doorway, his face a bit reddish from a blush across his nose bridge. Right. The answer to the confession.

You stand up, and immediately regret it when the world spins and you stumble in front of John. His happy face turns concerned in a second flat, and what seems like a flash, he's buy your side, holding you up.

You wouldn't go down from some fucking cold. That just wasn't cool.

Smirking, you stand up as straight as you can manage, croaking,"I didn't know you could flash step."

"Dave, you're sick!" John almost screams while biting furiously at his bottom lip.

"Nah, I'm not. I'm fine."

Then what was it that made the world spin? If you think back to all the time you've spent with Egbert while he was sick, it comes as a no-brainer that you caught A LOT of virus cells... most likely you lapped it up when you kissed him and snorted it up while you snuggled the shit out of him while he was asleep.

"You're not," he replies firmly.

"I-"

The world does a one-eighty on you and suddenly down is up, and side is down, and up is diagonal?

I'm fine... You think hazily before you feel the impact of the ground hitting you in the right shoulder.