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FILL: Of A Lost King's Daughter Part 2/?

[copycatgirl]

When James awakes, he doesn't know where he is. This bed doesn't feel like his own, nor Michael's. It's narrow, and uncomfortable, and the covers are tucked under the mattress, which he hates. He wriggles violently to free them, before he's even bothered to open his eyes.

"Whoa, whoa," someone's voice says, "Take it easy. James, James, it's alright."

"Just get this stupid blanket off," James grumbles, opening his eyes, blinking in the sudden light. Michael is pulling back the covers, and gazing at James concernedly.

"Hey." he says softly.

"Hi," James replies, rubbing his eyes, feeling exhausted, "I... what...what happened?"

"We're not really sure. Your drink got spiked, and you passed out."

James remembers with almost-clarity the previous evening, having cut this head, being lead off the toilets, and his call of, "Watch the drinks!". He groans.

"I have shit friends," he says plainly, leaning against the headboard of the hospital bed. Michael just smiles at that, reaching out and stroking James' hair.

"I'm glad you're okay." he says.

"So what was it? What was put in my drink?"

"That's the thing," Michael tells him, a slight frown settling on his features, "They don't know. Don't panic-" he adds quickly, as James showed signs of doing, "You seem fine. In fact, you seem probably better than you were yesterday. Do you feel alright?"

"Uh," James paused to consider, "Yeah, actually. Not so much as a headache."

"They've run most of the tests, they just want to keep you in today for observation. Just to check you don't start chucking up rainbows or growing an extra head."

"I'll try and keep my gay vomit to a minimum," James grins, leaning in for a kiss.

*

Two weeks and six days following James being discharged from hospital, all joking about being sick has ceased. For nearly a week, James has taken to being spectacularly sick every morning at almost precisely six-thirty, been wrestled back into bed by a concerned Michael, but then felt fine and dandy by lunch time. He staggers groggily into the bathroom now, kneeling in front of the toilet as his insides start to complain. Michael holds James' hair out of his face, as bile and saliva dribble lamely into the toilet bowl. His stomach's empty, so there's nothing to bring up, making the retching even worse for him, his throat feeling like it's on fire and his eyes watering.

'Bleurgh." He says simply as he stands up, wiping his mouth and eyes and flushing the sick away. He pads back into his bedroom, Michael following him.

"Don't make me stay in bed," James says warningly, pointing a finger at Michael, "I can't do it. It's just a pointless waste of my morning, you know I'll be fine in an hour or so."

"Are you going back to bed?" Michael asks.

"I might as well stay up now, in case I throw up again," James says with a shrug.

"I'll go and make tea," Michael says, glancing at James briefly before quitting the room.

James pulls a shirt and a pair of jeans out of the wardrobe, putting on the former with no problem at all, but looking at the jeans warily, like they're mocking him.

"Come on, come on..." He mutters, pulling them on, dismayed to find that they, not the first pair recently, won't do up around his middle. He breathes in and manages to yank the zip closed, but the waistband cuts painfully into his stomach. He wriggles out of them dejectedly and looks in the wardrobe for something not as tight.

He eventually opts to steal a pair of Michael's slacks, although he has the roll the legs up as they're too long, but the shirt doesn't match, so he finds a loose-fitting t-shirt that he thinks he retired to nightwear a while ago, but will do for now.

"What is wrong with me..." He mutters quietly to himself, looking at himself side on in his full length mirror that covers one of the wardrobe doors, pulling the t-shirt tight to his body. It isn't so much that it's really noticeable, but his stomach definitely has a very slight curve to it.

"James?"

James starts, instinctively yanking on the t-shirt so it hangs looser on him, looking at Michael, who is standing in the doorway holding two mugs of steaming tea.

"Tea," he says gently, walking over, a smile softening his features, crinkling around his eyes.