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Arthur knew instantly when he awoke that it had come for him, too. He had known it would, knew it from the moment John had brought back some goddamn plague from that germ-ridden cesspool of an elementary school of his. The kid had thrown up a few times in the past couple of days, but now appeared to be on the mend. Now, of course, here Arthur was, roused from a dead sleep by a horrible churning in his stomach.
He pushed himself up in bed, shuddering as his blanket pooled around his waist and left his torso uncovered. The air felt cold, yet somehow still stifling; he felt as though every bit of his existence hurt. A pained noise fell from his mouth, unbidden as it tore through the still silence of his bedroom.
The shakes had fully begun by now, wracking Arthur’s frame as he sat there paralyzed by discomfort. The deep, pained feeling in his stomach had begun to morph into a twisting nausea, though he stubbornly refused to move. If he did, it would be an acknowledgment, an admission of his illness. No, he was determined to sit here and tough it out until his body decided to cooperate and leave him be.
Still, there was only so much he could do to put this off. When discomfort turned to desperation that made the back of his throat tingle, Arthur kicked his blanket off clumsily, rising to his feet with shaky legs and navigating through his dark room and down the shadowy hallway. He passed by John’s room, the nightlight in the boy’s room illuminating his now-peaceful sleeping form as he recovered without a care in the world. Arthur felt a childish sense of bitterness arise at the sight, nostrils flaring as his pain urged him to continue swiftly down the hallway.
Upon entering the bathroom, Arthur shoved a hand out and fumbled for the light switch, flicking it on and flooding the room with white light that felt uncomfortably sterile and cold in his already-pitiful condition. He craved warmth and darkness, but that would have to wait until this was sorted out. His body shook with nausea.
Half-keeled over by now, Arthur moaned, face screwing up as he allowed himself to collapse the rest of the way onto his knees just before the toilet. Of course, now that he was here, his body was now vehemently refusing to let go, even as he attempted to let himself throw up and rid his body of what was plaguing it so fiercely and making him miserable.
The nausea was now so overwhelming that it was beginning to make his head spin. The bathroom air felt stagnant like tepid water, yet Arthur still felt himself shiver relentlessly. He kept his head down, forehead like a magnet to the very edge of the toilet seat.
There he sat for an uncomfortable stretch of time, near tears as he moaned and begged whatever god was out there to spare him, to just kill him already. There was something so completely helpless about being forced to sit here and brave the pain with no way out until his body decided to give him one.
The house was silent, and then it wasn’t. Footsteps padded down the hardwood floor of the hallway, the sound so muted that Arthur figured he might be imagining it. Lighter steps, gentler ones. Certainly not Dutch, must be…
“Arthur…” Hosea’s voice carried from the doorway, words catching on a tired sigh. The bathroom door creaked lightly as the older man pushed it open all the way. “It’s got you, too?” he finished, voice achingly gentle. Finally, Arthur looked back. A deep exhaustion and worry was set within his father’s face, brown eyes sympathetic and sad. His arms weren’t crossed as they usually would be. Instead, they were raised only slightly, hands poised in a hesitant manner that exhibited his difficulty in resisting the urge to instantly invade the boy’s space for the sake of caring for him.
Arthur couldn’t bring himself to say anything, instead letting a shuddering, pained moan break loose from his chest as he dropped his heavy head so his chin rested on his chest. He felt like a child, and it embarrassed him thoroughly. Hosea appeared to take that as his invitation, stepping inside with socked feet and approaching from behind Arthur.
Fingers of a warm and calloused hand wound their way into Arthur’s hair, the pads of them massaging into his scalp as Hosea extended the tips of his fingers out from his palm and then back in again like the motion of a claw machine. It was an obvious attempt at comfort without having to bend down to his level just yet, something that had become increasingly difficult for Hosea in recent years. It was clear that he was assessing the situation, figuring out how long Arthur might need to be in here.
“… Reckon we’ll all catch it sooner or later after John,” murmured Hosea with an air of disquiet that was somehow still tolerant. Speaking of it like it’s inevitable, but alright. Not the end of the world. In Arthur’s state of immense discomfort, he couldn’t tell if the sentiment irritated him or comforted him. “Hm. ‘S alright.” Hosea murmured with a gentle finality.
“Ain’t even thrown up yet,” Arthur answered with a groan. The first real words that have come out of his mouth tonight. He sounded pitifully intolerant of a situation that was objectively quite mild.
“I know…” Hosea practically crooned the words out, fingers still moving in that hypnotizing motion that soothed Arthur to no end. “… gotta relax, Arthur. Let it happen.” The kid just whined, stomach rolling as he pulled himself closer to the toilet. He felt it mounting now, nausea reaching a fever pitch as he tried to just allow it to.
Arthur was almost offended by the force it all came up with, but it didn’t last too long. Throwing up was never as bad as he made it out to be beforehand. The same was true this time. It happened, and then it was gloriously over.
Arthur slumped sideways against the wall, reaching up to press down the flush handle so he didn’t have to look at it anymore. Hosea’s hand had slipped from his hair somewhere during all of that, but it returned now in that same gentle raking motion. This time, Arthur felt the calloused fingers of his father’s hand move down to rest on the top of his forehead. They remained for a second before Hosea pulled them back up to his hair, a disapproving tsk falling from his mouth at Arthur’s temperature.
“You done?” he asked, decidedly gentle with his words as he reached for one of the little mouthwash cups on the bathroom counter. The boy nodded, barely possessing the strength to lift his head and do so.
“For now,” he murmured weakly. Hosea’s gentle hand slipped from his hair once again. The brief sound of rushing water could be heard. Then, a small paper cup was pushed into Arthur’s hand.
“Rinse your mouth.” A gentle command from Hosea. Arthur followed his instructions, ridding his mouth of the sour taste that was already making him feel sick again. “Back to bed… c’mon,” Hosea instructed gently, grasping one of Arthur’s elbows and helping him pull himself up off of the floor.
The older man stared at Arthur as the boy stood, his eyes weary with the weight of concern and being woken up in the middle of the night. Still, he didn’t seem to mind being up if it was for this reason. Hosea’s hand drifted back up to Arthur’s forehead, as if his temperature had changed significantly in the last minute. It surely hadn’t, but Hosea’s eyebrows still drew together fretfully. Arthur’s eyes drifted dizzily from his father’s scrutinizing gaze, unable to handle being stared at with such intensity. This seemed to snap Hosea back on track.
“Back to bed,” Hosea murmured, reminding himself as he rested a hand lightly on the small of Arthur’s back. The boy could still walk on his own, Hosea reminded himself mentally, resigning himself to steadying Arthur with a hand that rested faintly on his back. He ushered Arthur quietly down the hallway and into his quiet bedroom, blankets still mussed from his abrupt awakening.
Arthur trudged across the wooden floor of his room, hands sticking out and planting flat against his mattress as he climbed back into bed. With a quiet whine, he adjusted himself, careful not to jostle his still-upset stomach into a less stagnant state. Finally, he flattened, cheek pressed to his pillow as he gingerly rested belly-down on the mattress. His warm blanket—still fluffy and fresh from yesterday’s wash—was pulled up over his shoulders, the movement punctuated by a gentle pat on the back from Hosea.
“You throw up in this if you need to, alright?” came the gentle murmur from Hosea. Arthur’s eyes were half-shut already as he vaguely processed the man dragging his bedroom trash can over next to his bed. The steady and calloused hand returned to Arthur’s back, moving up and down in a gentle pattern that allowed a comforting warmth to seep through Arthur’s T-shirt.
“Mmm,” Arthur hummed in quiet, miserable acknowledgment. It was also an encouragement of Hosea’s hand movement on his back, the gentle pressure from his fingertips and the grazing of his nails making Arthur’s brain feel all mushy and tingly. His stomach still turned uncertainly, but he was glad to be back in his bed. He loved his bed a lot.
“… ‘Least John’s feeling better,” Hosea murmured, an utterance that caused an inkling of irritation to arise in Arthur. “Won’t take more than a couple of days ‘fore the same happens for you.”
“Guess so.” The mumble from Arthur was miserable and petulant. He wanted to feel better now, not in a couple of days. Still, it all wasn’t so bad right now. He wasn’t hurting anymore, not like he was before he threw up. There was a calmness to him now, head feeling floaty and warm as his cheek pressed against his soft pillow and his stomach roiled only mildly. All that remained now was that unmistakable feeling of being ill, that out-of-body wooziness that always accompanied a fever. After a moment of silence only occupied by the sounds of scratching on fabric as Hosea’s hand drifted up and down Arthur’s back, the older man spoke.
“Gonna be alright?” came the gentle inquiry from Hosea. He sounded tired, surely, but he wasn’t making an effort to leave just yet. Arthur could barely muster up the energy to slur out a response. The illness had sapped his energy entirely, and he wanted nothing more than to lie here silent while Hosea tended to him like he was a child. Still, he had been taken care of well enough tonight. The least he could do was say something, to ease Hosea’s worries and communicate.
“... ‘M good…” Arthur mumbled, the sound a thick slur of exhaustion that barely came through as it was muffled by his pillow. The response drew a pitying sigh from Hosea, who dragged his nails along the exposed inside of Arthur’s forearm before giving him a final pat on the shoulder, placing both of his hands on his knees and pushing himself off of Arthur’s bed with a weary groan.
“Assuming I won’t need to wake you for school tomorrow, correct?” Hosea hovered over Arthur’s bed for a moment longer, his gentle whispered voice barely a ripple disturbing the quiet and sacred peace of the bedroom. The kid just made a noise that was anything but affirmative regarding the matter of going to school the following morning. Despite the misery, Arthur’s room was calm and dark and cool, the epitome of a sanctuary amid the sick feeling. He was all wrapped up in bed now, and the worst of it seemed to be over. He’d be alright.
“G’night,” Arthur slurred out, the insistent crease between his eyebrows softening finally as the urge to sleep penetrated every crevice of his brain. He welcomed it eagerly, eyes drooping further and shutting completely. Hosea lingered only a moment longer, sighing and grasping the top edge of Arthur’s blanket. He tugged it up over the boy more snugly, willing himself not to fuss as he moved gently out of the room.