"Hey Peter," Mike said as he entered the house. "I picked up some stuff for you that I thought might help."
He looked around, not seeing the blonde anywhere.
"Peter?" He called out.
Mike got his answer in the sound of vomiting from inside the bathroom. He sighed and went over, knocking on the door.
"Peter? It's Mike. Can I come in?"
He didn't answer and Mike opened the door slightly to reveal Peter on his knees, crouched in front of the toilet.
Mike frowned and sat down beside him, rubbing his back as he coughed and vomited.
"Hey…" he said softly. Peter only groaned in response.
"I brought you some different types of medicine. Pain killers, some stuff for the headaches and the stomachaches too. I know they won't make you better but they might help a little."
Peter nodded and coughed.
"Alright, you wanna try this?"
Peter nodded again and Mike went through the plastic bag.
"Okay," he said, pulling out a bottle and reading the label. "This one's for the nausea. Then we have some cold and flu medicine…this is for the headaches and…let me get you some water. I'll be right back."
Mike hopped up and grabbed a cup from the cabinet, filling it with water.
"Okay, Peter," he said, returning into the bathroom and sitting back down on the floor. "So two for the nausea ones, I can give you two more in four hours. The cold and flu ones—"
"I don't have the cold or flu," Peter said in a whisper.
"I know but you have similar symptoms," Mike sighed. "You've been having fevers and chills and stuff, I thought it might help."
Peter nodded, looking down. Mike went back to reading the label.
"It's one every four hours. And this is two every six hours."
Mike smiled slightly.
"I think we need to make a list of all the times," he joked. Peter didn't find it funny. Mike sighed and poured the appropriate amount of each medicine in his hand and poured it into Peter's hand. His eyes widened when he noticed Peter's arm.
"Does your arm hurt?"
Peter frowned and shook his head.
"Is it bad?" He asked, not wanting to look. Mike winced at the sight of it, despite trying to hold it together for him. The needle marks along Peter's arm were now turning black.
"Can you move your arm?"
Peter closed his eyes and tried to move his hand. Each of his fingers twitched slightly.
"I-it feels a little numb…" he said quietly.
Mike cringed.
"Okay. Well, we can see if a doctor could look at it later. As long as you can still move your fingers and arm, you should be good right now."
Peter opened his eyes and nodded. Mike smiled slightly.
"Good news though, you're looking much better than you did a few days ago."
Peter coughed.
"Okay," he said, not knowing anything else to say. He took the pills with water and shuddered as they went down. Mike frowned and wrapped his arm around his friend.
"You alright?"
"Don't feel…" Peter opened his mouth to talk but was cut off by a wave of throw up. Mike began rubbing Peter's back.
"It's okay," he said softly as Peter began to now sob. "It's okay, just breathe."
"Wh-why are you d-doing this?" Peter sniffled, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Mike only scooted himself closer to him.
"Doing what?"
"M-making me s-s-suffer," he choked out, trying to get away from Mike.
"I'm making you suffer?" Mike asked with a frown and Peter nodded.
"I-it hurts s-so much, Mike," he said, shivering. "Y-you're m-making it hurt."
Mike sighed.
"I'm sorry if it feels like I'm making you suffer—"
"You are—"
"But I'm only trying to help."
Peter scowled at him.
"I-I never asked f-for your help," he said darkly.
"Not with words you didn't," Mike frowned. "Last week you were living on the street and could barely stand up on your own. You'd have to be insane to see your best friend like that and not do something about it."
"I'm older than you, Mike," Peter said sternly. "By almost a year, I am."
Mike sighed, trying to keep himself from getting frustrated.
"If you don't want my help, you can leave. You wanna go out and kill yourself, kill yourself. But just know that there will be people who care about you who will stop you if you try it."
Peter frowned and shakily made his way to his feet, one hand over his stomach and leaning over in pain. It took Mike a minute to realize Peter was crying. He sighed and stood, leading Peter into the guest bedroom and laying him on the bed.
"Try and get some rest, okay?" Mike offered, sitting in the bed beside him. Peter didn't answer.
"You know why I'm doing this, right, Peter?" He asked after a minute, finally getting his attention.
"I'm doing this because I care about you. Because I don't want you to suffer."
Peter looked at him, slightly confused.
"You keep shooting yourself up with that junk, one of these days, it's gonna really hurt you," Mike warned.
"It takes away the pain," Peter said, tears filling in his eyes. "It feels good because I'm not in pain anymore."
"Yeah, but it's only temporary so you become more and more dependent on that feeling. You need to be really careful with those things," Mike said, brushing the hair out of Peter's face. "I wish you could've seen yourself last week so you'd know what I was talking about."
Mike sighed.
"And Peter, I don't want you to suffer. That's why I'm taking care of you. And it absolutely kills me to see you like this but I know you can fight this and get better. That's why I'm doing this."
Peter never answered that. He was already sound asleep. Mike sighed and stood, returning with a wet washcloth and trash can. He set the can by the bed and carefully laid the cloth over Peter's forehead. Peter groaned when he felt it, tensing up slightly, before eventually easing and going back to sleep.
"Good night, Peter," Mike whispered, pulling the covers over his friend. He couldn't help but feel guilty to see him like this. If he had been looking out for him more, a better friend, Peter would've never left in the first place. He wouldn't have felt unappreciated and hurt. Mike sighed and stood. He couldn't change the past but there was the future. He had found Peter, unconscious on top of a trash bag on the sidewalk, and carried him home that night.
Peter was pale, practically just skin and bone, had a high fever, and was barely even alive. Mike almost didn't even recognize his own friend. He started weeping once he realized who it was. He picked up his friend, frantically looking for any signs of life in him. He ran him to his house when he couldn't find any, telling him to just hold on. He'd get help there soon. It was his fault. He should've been looking out for Peter more but he hadn't then, now having to pay the consequences for that.
Still, he had done his best to help out now. Even though Peter didn't want his help, he needed it. Peter had already almost killed himself, whether intentional or not, and Mike was doing everything in his power to prevent it from happening again.
He left the door open so the second Peter needed him, he'd be there. And he was. Every single time those next few days.
