Thanks to everyone who read and to Priyanka for reviewing.
Crosses over with Meaning Makes It ch. 29, but both stories can be read separately.
Roddy stepped out of the path of anyone heading for the exit, hooking his fingers on the low sill and glaring out through the rain-streaked window of the theater at the taillights of the bus that had just rolled past. It figured.
He glanced back towards the dressing rooms. Maybe he could hang around here for a while longer? But there were ushers already starting to circle—most of the regular theatergoers had left and those remaining looked like the families and friends of either the dancers or his classmates—so he doubted he'd get away with that for very long.
With a sigh, he rested his forehead against the glass. Damn it. Not that it had been a bad performance or anything, like all of the rest it had gone just fine, but it had come at the end of a long week, and he most definitely included the performances from last weekend in that. Except for dinner a couple days ago with Monroe and Rosalee, it felt like he'd just been going, especially with all of the finals work the non-music teachers had been piling on.
It didn't help that he was starving, either. He'd skipped lunch today in favor of practicing for his history presentation, and while he'd say that it had been worth it since the presentation itself had gotten good marks, he could have done without the paper portion from Monday being handed back immediately afterwards with a giant red 'redo' on it because fucking grammar. Plus Dr. Kaplan had pulled him out of Latin as soon as his translation final was done to remind him about his prob and stats work. Not that he hadn't known that he was falling behind, and not that he hadn't already been planning to catch up over break, but it was just so much fun having your principal breathing down your neck about that kind of thing. So he was hungry and tired and had a whole list of crap to do over what was supposed to be a vacation—figuring out college applications and auditions and all of that was also included—and now he was stuck downtown for another hour before he could even get on the bus back to his neighborhood.
"Are you waiting for your parents?" one of the ushers asked, suddenly beside him.
"Oh, uh, no. Just thinking."
She smiled politely, but it was pretty obvious what she wanted, and after a moment he gave in.
"I guess I'd better get going. Have a good evening."
An approving nod. "You as well."
He checked that his violin and backpack were securely looped over opposite shoulders, pulled his jacket around him a little tighter, and then pushed open the nearest door and headed down the stone steps towards the sidewalk. The temperature was still warm enough that the crap falling from the sky hadn't yet turned to snow, small favors, but bus stop shelters were scant protection at the best of times. It was a good thing that this was their last performance because if his suit got as wet as he was expecting, he was going to have to leave it hanging in the bathroom for a week to get it dry again.
Maybe one of the restaurants down the street would let him come in and kill some time with a coke and some fries or something? He hated to waste the money and doubted that they'd appreciate him taking up a whole table if that was all he was buying anyway, but a spot at the bar and something cheap to munch on until the next bus came through sounded awfully good right about now. Being eighteen meant that he wasn't technically allowed in any bar areas, but someone might be willing to let that slide as long as he didn't cause any trouble. It was worth a tr—
Something hit him in the back and sent him pitching forward, and with the handrail nowhere near close enough to grab he rolled instinctively and tried to shield his violin. His backpack slipped free when that arm hit first, but fortunately he'd only been a few steps from the bottom of the staircase, and while landing on his back on the sidewalk knocked the wind out of him, he'd managed to pull his violin case around far enough that it only hit him and not the pavement.
He shoved himself back up as soon as he had the oxygen, snarling at the smirking asshole above him. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" Not that he needed to ask, not when Dylan had bounced him off more than a few lockers this year, but what was he thinking trying that out here? And when Roddy had his violin on him? "Have you lost your fucking—"
"Hey, now!" a man barked. "There's no need for that. It was just an accident."
"Really?" Roddy snapped, shifting his glare. "Was it? Because when most people have accidents they apologize, they don't stand there grinning like a fucking shithead." He could feel that back of his pants were soaked through, now, and probably the part of his suit jacket that hadn't been protected by the outer one, and it was pretty obvious that Dylan was the clone of this creep which just about followed. The guy was suddenly gaping, probably because kids like Roddy weren't supposed to talk back to guys like him, and Roddy couldn't help a sneer. "Or maybe that just doesn't apply to your family? It would explain him, anyway."
The man flushed, and Roddy wasn't about to wait around for him to decide on a reply, snatching his backpack up from where it had fallen and turning and to stalk down the road. Damn it again, because maybe he could have slipped into a restaurant when he'd been in a clean suit, but muddy and half-soaked there was no way that that was going to happen. And he couldn't blame them, either.
Fuck it, landing in a puddle meant that this thing was probably going to need to be dry cleaned, too.
He took a minute when he got to the bus stop to open his violin case, but fortunately the instrument was still safely secured, and he closed it up just as fast. One thing gone right, at least. And if he huddled as far into the corner as he could, the sleet mostly couldn't get to him.
Roddy's head was pounding as he climbed off the bus, his stomach didn't feel great either, and he was really wishing that he'd called Barry and rescheduled rather than forcing himself out of bed this morning. It was too late now, though, as the bus released its brakes with a completely unnecessary squeal and pulled away from the stop.
At least Barry hadn't brought up staying the night when they'd talked on Thursday. Normally Roddy would be happy to hang out, but right now it felt like he'd be doing well to hold it together for just a couple hours, and once that was done he was going to crawl back into bed and not come out for a good long while.
He shook his head and then wished that he hadn't, knuckling his forehead as he started up the road. The sun was unnecessarily bright this morning considering the crap that had been coming down last night and what winter in Portland usually looked like.
The glare off Barry's windshield when he reached the Rabes' driveway sent another spike of pain through his skull, but none of it had anything to do with Barry, and he made himself smile and raise a hand in greeting.
Barry pushed the door open. "Hey."
"Hey."
Barry frowned as he climbed in. "Are you okay? You look awfully pale. Like, even for you."
"Funny."
Barry's frown deepened, and he waved it off.
"Sorry, I'm fine, it's just been a long week. We've done The Nutcracker every year, but for some reason it was really rough on top of finals this time." Plus not sleeping much last night courtesy of his fucking heater, but whatever. He pulled his seatbelt across as Barry turned them back up the driveway. "What about you, did your calc final go okay?" He'd sounded pretty focused on Thursday, not that Roddy had much business talking considering that he'd only just remember to call Barry mid Latin-cramming.
Barry suddenly looked uncomfortable, his hands flexing against the wheel. "I think so. I hope so. I mean, I think I did stuff right, but the results won't be posted until Monday so I won't know until then. And even then there might be a curve or something. I don't know, I just hope I did okay."
That didn't sound right, or at least it sounded weirdly anxious for someone who'd been pretty clear that this was his last math class if he had any say at all in the matter, and Roddy frowned. "What's wrong? I mean, if it went totally sideways maybe you end up with a C instead of a B, but who cares? It's not what you want to do anyway." Nor did Barry have to worry about grades for scholarship stuff the way that Roddy did, although Roddy wasn't so much of an ass as to say so.
"It's just...I kind of need everything to be as good as it can be right now."
"Why?"
"I…." A quick shake of his head. "I'll tell you later."
That was weird enough to be worth pushing on, but the truck lurched abruptly, and Roddy barely had time to choke out a 'Stop!' before clapping a hand to his mouth.
It must had been understandable enough since the truck came to a halt just as quickly—that or Barry recognized the universal gesture of someone about to puke—and Roddy shoved the door open and fumbled at the catch on his seatbelt. He only just got it off in time to lean out and avoid getting sick all over the interior, and as a second wave of nausea hit, he nearly lost his balance and followed the grossness right to the ground. Probably would have, if Barry hadn't grabbed him, but since Barry grabbed the same arm that had bounced off the staircase last night, Roddy couldn't help a yelp of pain.
"Roddy?" He let go immediately. "What's—did I grab too hard? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to."
"No" Roddy said with a shaky breath, leaning back in the car seat and swiping at his mouth. "Shit, I'm sorry."
"You really don't look good," Barry said. "Are you done? Come on, grab the door."
"You shouldn't—I should just go back to the bus stop." He started to shake his head and then remembered what a bad idea that was, pressing his hands to his temples. "I'm sorry, I thought I'd be okay, but I can just catch the next bus home."
Barry stretched past him and grabbed the truck door himself, pulling it shut. "No way. We're going up to the house. Dad'll know what to do."
Roddy wanted to point out that Mr. Rabe was a lawyer, not a doctor, and either way there wasn't much that anyone could do about a bad night's sleep and some probably-bad leftovers, but before he could even start the argument they were moving again. And once they got to the house Barry practically dragged Roddy inside, yelling for his dad as soon as they crossed the threshold. Roddy pressed both palms to his forehead because Barry was loud when he wanted to.
"Barry? What on earth is going on?" Mr. Rabe demanded, coming down the stairs quickly.
"Roddy's sick. And hurt, I think."
"What?"
"It's not…." Roddy lowered his hands. "I'm fine. Really. I just didn't sleep very well last night. If I could just rinse out my mouth, I can head back down to the bus stop."
Barry scowled. "You threw up on the way here, you yelled when I grabbed your arm, and you keep pressing on your head like it hurts, too."
"He yelled when you did wh—"
"He didn't do anything," Roddy interrupted before this could get any stupider than it already was. "One of the jerks from my school knocked me down last night, and he managed to hit one of the bruises. No big deal."
"What do you mean someone knocked you down?" Barry demanded, features flickering a little, and Roddy rolled his eyes at him.
"What do you think I mean? One minute I was walking down the steps after the ballet let out, and the next thing I knew…." He shrugged. "My classmates are jac—erks, it's not exactly news."
"Someone knocked you down a staircase?" That was Mr. Rabe, and he didn't look very happy either. Roddy should have stayed home today for a lot of reasons.
"It was just a couple steps."
Mr. Rabe's frown didn't exactly lessen. "Go rinse your mouth out and then come sit down."
"I'm fine." His skull was about ready to split, maybe, but it wasn't like there was anything else in his stomach to lose so there was no point in everyone wasting their time.
"Mouth, and then come sit down," Mr. Rabe repeated, and since it was pretty obvious that Roddy wasn't going to argue his way out of the order, he ducked into the small bath off the living room and did his best to get the taste out of his mouth. And then splashed some water on his face because fuck, he did somehow look worse now than he had when he'd left home.
Mr. Rabe and Barry were sitting on the couches when he came back out, and given the lack of other options Roddy took the spot beside Barry.
"Leaving aside the bullying, at least for the moment, what's this about getting sick?" Mr. Rabe asked.
"Nothing. Really."
He looked at Barry.
"He didn't look so great when I picked him up, but he's always kind of pale so…." Barry shrugged, and Roddy would have told him to fuck off if that was the kind of thing that you were allowed to say in front of someone's parent. "But then when we were coming up the driveway he yelled at me to stop all of a sudden and then opened the door and started throwing up. And for a minute it looked like he was going to take a header right out of the truck, too, which is when I grabbed him."
Mr. Rabe looked at Roddy again, and Roddy bit back a groan. "I skipped lunch yesterday, and then the ballet ran late with speeches and stuff since it was the closing performance. By the time I got home I was so hungry that I didn't even look at what I grabbed out of the fridge. The sauce had probably just started to go off or something. I don't have a cough or sore throat or anything, and not a fever either, so I can't be sick-sick."
For a moment Mr. Rabe seemed to hesitate. "Have you gotten ill from eating bad food before? I wouldn't...I didn't think that that was something that Reinigen typically suffered from."
Roddy should probably be annoyed by the stereotyping, but it wasn't like Mr. Rabe was wrong. Once or twice he'd even eaten things he was pretty sure had turned just because he'd been hungry, and that was leaving aside all of the gross crap his cousins used to dare each other to eat with exactly zero repercussions. "No," he admitted. "But I haven't got a better explanation."
"Did you feel sick yesterday?"
"No."
"And did you have a headache yesterday?"
"No, but like I said, I didn't sleep very well last night. It happens sometimes."
"It does, but given what else you've said, is there any chance that you might have hit your head when you got knocked down?
Barry growled something, but Roddy was more surprised by the question than anything else. "I don't think so? I don't know. It happened really fast. I was mostly worried about my violin, and then I was flat on my back in a puddle." And pissed because that idiot could have hurt his violin, plus the need to get his suit dry cleaned.
"Hm. May I?"
Roddy wasn't sure what Mr. Rabe wanted as he shifted over, at least until a hand touched his hair, and then instinct froze him in place. For a moment, anyway, until reflex made him jerk away with a hiss of pain because he apparently had picked up a bruise on his skull last night too. Fucking Dylan. His stomach had twisted again at the sharp movement, and by the time he had it under control again Mr. Rabe had backed off and was looking at him seriously.
"Well, I'm not an expert, but between that and your symptoms, I think you might have a concussion."
Oh. Fuck. That hadn't even occurred to him, but it would explain a few things. He braced himself and pushed up from the couch. "Sorry, in that case I really should have stayed home. I'll go—"
"No!" Barry said, overlapping Mr. Rabe's, "Absolutely not."
"What? But—"
"It would be beyond irresponsible to send you home alone less than twenty-four hours after a probable concussion," Mr. Rabe said firmly. "Frankly if you landed the way that you described, someone should have checked on you last night."
Fat chance of that when the only people who'd even stopped had been the asshole who'd done it and said asshole's father who hadn't given a damn.
"Now, you can stay here," Mr. Rabe continued before he could point that out, "or maybe I could call Monroe?"
Roddy started to shake his head and then remembered that that was a bad idea and rubbed his forehead instead. "Monroe's visiting his parents for the week. But I can't stay. My violin's at home, and the heater's not great, and anyway I need my comp—oh, shit."
"What?" Barry asked.
Another spike of pain went through his skull, but he had bigger things to worry about suddenly. "I had my computer in my backpack when I fell. I didn't even think about it last night." If that was busted he had no idea what he was going to do because even if the school had a spare he could borrow, they were out for the next two weeks, and he had stuff that he had to get done before then. "I've got to make sure that that's okay, and then I've got classwork to catch up on, and I don't even have any clothes or anything here."
"How about this?" Mr. Rabe said. "I'm not sending you home alone. Not tonight for sure; we'll see how you feel in a day or two."
Roddy wanted to argue, but it was pretty obvious how well that wouldn't go over. Especially since Mr. Rabe was still speaking.
"If there's someone you'd like to call, of course you're welcome to do so, but otherwise...well, I need to go down into the city to pick up a few things at the butcher's today anyway, so how about you give me your keys and I'll stop and pick up your violin and backpack and whatever else you'd like on the way?"
There was no reason for him to put himself out like that, Roddy could curl up in a ball as easy at home as anywhere else. Hell, easier there than anywhere else since there he wouldn't feel guilty about bothering other people. But Mr. Rabe was still looking at him, and if he looked back Barry probably would be too, and after a moment he gave in and dug his key out.
