Just Turn Around, Part Eight

[xaritomene]

Title: Just Turn Around Part 8

Authors: xrysomou and xaritomene. xx!

Rating: PG-13 for language (so far)

Warnings: Possible OOC and a very sick Tyson. Not that way, fandom, minds out of gutter please, kthnx. He's ill.

Disclaimer: We don't own AAR, because if we did, that would be just the teeniest bit sick and wrong. Also, if you've got here by googling yourself or your famous friends, BACK YOU DEVILS, BACK! You are not welcome here. ^_^ Seriously, you'll just scar yourself for life. Save yourself the pain!

...bye, Tyson. :D

Summary: It started with a simple headache. AKA, Tyson is sick, but no one realises until muuuuch later. \o/

AN: OMG FINISHED. FINISHED LIKE A FINISHED THING. And this part is RIDICULOUSLY long, so will probably be in three, maybe even four parts. *facepalm*

Also, we're near collapsing ourselves here - it's nearly two in the morning, we've been drinking since seven, and we still have the epilogue and sexcapade to get through. Expect these, er - anon, yeah? ^_^ ENJOY!

**

Previous parts:

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven

**



Chris gave him an odd look.

“It’s food,” he answered. “Remember that stuff? Though I’m not sure that what they’ve got here is technically food -“

“Smells good,” Tyson gave an enthusiastic sniff. “Smells really good! Gaylor, I’m hungry!” The last was announced with a mix of glee, bewilderment and desperation.

“ And this is a cause for excitement and celebration because...?”

“Because I haven’t felt hungry in weeks, dickwad. I’d almost forgotten what hunger feels like,” Tyson sighed, pulling a hand through his now clean but no less tangled hair.

Chris nodded.

“Yeah, I know, man, sorry,” he said, quietly.

Seeing an awkward silence looming over the horizon, Tyson started to beat the mattress with his fists.

“Food, Gaylor! Bring me food!”

“You’ve forgotten the magic word,” Chris sniped, concentrating half-heartedly on his magazine as Tyson started up a chant of ‘Food, Gaylor, food!” When he resumed the poking of Chris’ thigh, Chris gave up.

“All right, all right, you persistent fucker. I’ll see what I can get.” He stood up, and trudged to the door. “I’m not promising anythin’. They’ve probably got some kind of rota, or something. Knowing my luck, you’ll be last on the list, and I’ll have to put up with you until then.”

Turning left out of Tyson’s room, Chris almost collided with the day nurse, who had come to retake Tyson’s blood pressure and knock him out with a further round of antibiotics.

“Oh, thank God,” Chris breathed. “Listen, can he have something to eat? I wouldn’t ask, but he won’t shut up and he’s driving me crazy. Ma’am,” he added, with the smile that had dazzled the little old ladies back in Oklahoma.

The nurse raised her eyebrows. “He actually wants food? That’s a good sign; I was going to keep him on parenteral nutrition - food by IV,” she explained as Chris looked blank, “but if he wants something solid -“

“Oh, he wants it, all right,” Chris muttered, casting an evil look through the door. The nurse smothered a smile with her hand.

“If he thinks he can keep it down, then I’ll bring him something.”

“Sooner rather than later?” pleaded Chris, envisaging another hour being poked and otherwise tormented.

“As soon as I can,” promised the nurse, “let me just get this done, first.”

She strode into Tyson’s room, her small smile flourishing into a full-fledged grin as Tyson’s voice, croakier than normal, sang out: “I love my ladies in uniform!”

“Feeling better, are you?” Chris asked, acidly, sliding back into his seat as the nurse strapped the cuff around Tyson’s proffered arm.

“Yeah. Disappointed?” Tyson quirked an eyebrow at him, wincing a little as the cuff around his arm inflated to the point of discomfort. “Ouch.”

“I was hoping you’d slipped back into your coma while I was gone,” Chris deadpanned, “get a little peace and quiet around here.”

“Fuck you, Gaylor,” Tyson replied, robustly. “Keep hurting my feelings. One day, I might just leave and never come back. What would you do then, huh? All on your lonesome without your frontman to guide you?”

“I’m guessing the correct answer isn’t ‘throw an all-night party’, right?” As the cushion Tyson threw missed Chris by a mile, he looked elsewhere for sympathy.

“See how mean he is to me?” He appealed to the nurse, eyes brimming. “He starves me, too. Can I have something to eat?”

The nurse, who had been watching the whole exchange in almost silent hysterics, laughed and checked the blood pressure monitor.

“I don’t see why not. The catering staff are doing the rounds; let me see what I can find.” She disappeared around the corner.

“He beats me, too!” Tyson called after her, grinning wickedly at Chris’ withering expression. The grin turned into a radiant beam as the nurse returned, bearing a laden tray. “I love you,” Tyson informed her, seriously. “I swear. On my life and a packet of painkillers.” His expression flickered when he saw the contents of the tray, and he looked up, startled. “Mashed potato and peas? Seriously?”

“Was the diva expecting a five-course meal?” Chris asked, absently, as he finished the back cover of his magazine. “Finally! Why is it that it takes me a whole goddamn hour to read six pages with you around?”

Tyson was still frowning at his plate. “Dude, I think they gave me a kid’s portion. Of mashed potato. And peas. And - what the fuck is that?”

Chris leaned forward and examined the glutinous green glob on the smaller plate. “Lime Jell-O,” he said, succinctly. “You sure they haven’t mistaken you for a five-year-old?”

“It’s a bit limited, I know,” the nurse piped up from the corner. Both men jumped; they’d forgotten she was there. “But a plain diet is all-important right now: you haven’t been eating, so if we try to stuff too much food into your stomach in one go, there’s a good chance it could send your body into shock.”

“Mashed potato and peas,” repeated Tyson, hoping to get this unassailable point across. “And lime Jell-O.”

“I’d eat up, if I were you. It’s not as nice cold,” with the small, secretive smile beloved by doctors and nurses alike, she left. Grumbling, Tyson shovelled some mashed potato onto his fork and into his mouth, sighing blissfully as the warm food slid down his throat.

“This. This, Gaylor, is happiness for me.”

“Mashed potato, peas and what looks like an alien life-form?” Chris asked, sardonically, but Tyson wasn’t listening, concentrating on getting the food inside his stomach as fast as possible. “Slow down, dude, you’ll make yourself sick.”

“Hey,” said a voice from the door, and Mike wandered in, shoving his hair out of his eyes. “I heard you got food.”

“Mashed potato and peas,” Chris said, with a kind of gleeful vindictiveness. Mike shrugged.

“Better than nothing, I guess. Better than being fed through a tube. You guys seen Shabba anywhere?” There was something off in Mike’s tone, and Chris glanced up, sharply. Tyson, engrossed in keeping his peas on the fork, still wasn’t listening.

“Nope, not for a while. But I’ve been entertaining the invalid, so I haven’t left this room in a couple of hours.” Mike nodded, shoulders tense, and Chris’ frown deepened. “What’s up?”

Mike shook his head. “Nothin’. Nothing that can’t wait until later,” he amended, hastily, as Chris’ expression darkened to a scowl. Keeping secrets would be a nonstarter amongst them right now. Searching around for a change of subject, he focused on their frontman, who was staring at his plate with a puzzled air. “Dude, what’s up?”

Tyson sighed, tapping his fork against his tray. “I’m not hungry anymore.”

“What - dude - you’ve barely eaten half of it. C’mon, you’ve got to try the lime shit. Just to see what it tastes like.” Chris prodded the jelly with his pen. It wobbled. Tyson shook his head.

“Nah, man. I really don’t feel like eating, now. Actually, sleep sounds -“he yawned, stretching, and Mike rescued the tray as it tilted dangerously off Tyson’s knees. “- amazing.”

Without another word, he curled into a ball under the blankets and shut his eyes, his face slackening almost immediately into sleep. There was a moment of silence.

“Well. That was weird,” Mike volunteered at last, staring down at his quietly snoring frontman. Chris nodded.

“Crazier’n a bedbug. Guess it’s that whole “Tyson Ritter is a giant baby” thing coming back to haunt us. Anyway, what’s up with you?” Mike’s mouth set in a grim line.

“We’ve got a problem.” He paused as footsteps sounded in the corridor. The day-nurse walked in, followed by a harassed-looking Nick and Shabba.

“Is he all right?” Chris asked immediately, gesturing to the sleeping Tyson. “He hardly ate anything, then he just -“

“Please tell me he’s meant to do that,” Nick rounded belligerently on the nurse, tired, bloodshot eyes hectic. Shabba laid a warning hand on his arm. The nurse raised an eyebrow. Well, duh.

“It’s perfectly normal,” she replied, her voice neutral. “His body hasn’t had to cope with food in a long time. And he’s still pretty exhausted. He’s bound to want to sleep even after a little meal. It’s easier for his body to process one thing at a time.”

“Oh.” Nick deflated.

She continued as though Nick hadn’t spoken. “Living with him for the next week or so is going to be like-”

“’Living with a baby’, yes, ah, we heard. Anything else we need to know?” asked Shabba, sharp eyes taking in every detail.

“Keep his diet plain - dairy to a minimum if you can help it. Limited portions. Definitely no rich foods or he’ll throw it straight back up, and you’ll be back to square one. We’ll give you a diet sheet when he leaves the hospital.”

“Thanks,” the group muttered in chorus, staring anywhere but at Tyson. Informing him that his diet would consist of broccoli and wheatgrass shakes for the foreseeable future would be an interesting task.

“Did he say he felt nauseated at all?” the nurse had moved round to Tyson’s bedside, checking his heart rate, temperature and blood pressure. Chris cleared his throat.

“Not that he said.”

“That’s good,” she scrawled yet more numbers onto the already loaded chart. “If he’s kept it down after an hour, we’ll be able to remove his IV.”

“That’ll please him,” Mike muttered, prompting small smiles all-round. Maybe Tyson was getting better, however invisible his improvement might be.

“Call me if you need anything,” the nurse left at a walk dangerously close to a gallop. They got the feeling that they weren’t the easiest customers around.

“Right,” once the nurse was out of sight, Chris glared. “What the fuck’s going on? Y’all look fit to burst.”

Shabba sighed. “There’s a leak.” Wordlessly, Nick handed over the most recent copy of People magazine.

Move Along: Rejects’ Lead Singer Tyson Ritter Awake and Out of Danger.

Chris read through the article, eyes narrowing.

“Tyson Ritter’s dramatic collapse - how many times are they going to talk about his ‘dramatic collapse’?” He snarked and went back to reading. “Shocked thousands of All-American Rejects fans in the Johnson Arena in yadda-yadda-yadda blah-blah-blah emergency services called, blah blah blah, punched Pete Wentz of Fall-Out Boy,” Chris pointed at Nick without looking up from the article, “which, by the way, nice one, Wheeler, it’s so good to know we all keep a cool head under pressure,” Nick flushed, “unconscious for three days. The Rejects’ clean-cut image tarnished, etc etc etc, Ritter’s behaviour in the weeks leading up to his - collapse, again...” he looked up, “Guys, I don’t see what’s so new about this.”

Shabba was grim-faced. “Keep reading.”

Chris frowned but looked back down at the magazine. “Four days later, People can exclusively reveal - oh shit, what now!?” Six years under the media spotlight, the phrase “exclusively reveal” prompted warning bells when there had been no interview. “That despite the rumours, Tyson’s condition is prompted by illness rather than drugs, and he is continuing his ongoing battle with flagrant glitter abuse.” He threw it down in disgust. “I’m not reading any more.”

Mike picked up the offending magazine. “It’s kind of important we all know the ‘facts’ that are out there.” He pointed out quietly. “Fans of the Rejects will be relieved to know Tyson is awake and doing better, though his worrying weight of sixty kilograms-”

Chris looked up sharply. “Seriously?”

“Sixty kilograms,” Mike continued, a little louder, “Doesn’t bode well for a speedy recovery. Sources,” he held up one hand and made air-quotes with it, “‘close to Tyson say that his is a dangerously advanced case of mono, but that with time he should make a full recovery. His friends never leave his bedside, because we’re that dedicated,” Nick flinched, “and People magazine would like to extend their deepest, most fatuous, sympathies to Tyson and the band. Isn’t it nice to know we’re just an afterthought?” The magazine was once again thrown down. “Which is all well and good, except those ‘sources’ have to be someone in this hospital.”

“I’m more bothered by the fact that he’s sixty kilograms right now.” Chris pointed out, his voice just below a snap.

“But we can’t do anything about that, and we can do something about the leak.” Nick said quietly.

“Oh, what do you care?” Chris accused angrily.

Mike got in on the fight. “We’re not doing this again, and you two are going to wake him up.” He outright snapped. “We’ll deal with the leak and let the hospital deal with Tyson’s health.”

“Sixty kilograms!”

“Yes!” Mike’s tone was definitely angry now. “And repeating it will not miraculously make him heavier! We’ll leave that to the nice, qualified doctors!”

Chris subsided. “Probably not even correct, anyway.” He conceded unwillingly.

Shabba sighed heavily. “Maybe if you took your heads out of your asses and stopped arguing for a second, you’d think to check his chart about that.” In response to their blank looks, he sighed again and reached for the chart at the end of Tyson’s bed. “If you want something done...” he flicked through it. “Yeah, they’re right - well, nearly right. He’s gained a bit of weight since he came in.”

Chris frowned. “That just means that it’s a more accurate leak than we thought.”

“Well then, we’re back on damage control. Again.”

Mike shook his head. “We’ve been on damage control for months. I can’t remember when we weren’t on damage control.”

“Probably before Princess Ty decided to go all faint and feeble on us and get the kissing disease.” Chris snarked. “Anyway. Damage control.”

Toad spoke up for the first time. “Hate to say it, guys, but maybe we don’t need to?”

Instantaneous glares. “What do you mean?” Nick demanded.

“Well - it’s not exactly the way we would have wanted it to go down, but at least they’re hearing from someone outside us that it’s not drugs.”

“So, you mean, they’d all think we were lying?”

“Um... yes.” Toad agreed. “We’re weren’t exactly going to stand up and say, ‘whoops, sorry about the heroin scare - yeesh, that was a big one!’ if he had been shooting up, were we? But if they’re getting it from an outside source...”

Shabba considered this, but seemed to be the only one who was.

“You’re not seriously thinking this is a Good Thing, are you?” Chris asked acidly. “The guy has a right to his privacy!”

“He’s a rockstar, he hasn’t got any privacy.” Toad joked and then scrambled to correct himself in the face of all the glares. “I mean. No, it’s not ideal. But it’s not the worst thing in the world either!”

“Whatever.” Nick dismissed him, and they all missed the huff of disapproval from the bed. “Shabba, I want this fixed.”

“We’ll see what we can do.” Shabba considered it in silence for a moment and then began assigning tasks. “Mike, Toad - you two go and start flirting with the nurses, see if you can get anything out of them. And Toad, don’t make that joke you’re thinking of making. Phone numbers don’t count. Nick, Chris...” he glanced at them both. “If I send you two off to do something, do you promise not to maim each other in horrible and creative ways?” Curt nods. “Go and buy a copy of every gossip magazine you can get your hands on - we need to know what else is being said.”

“How about you?”

“I’m going to find our dear friend Dr. Rees. I’m sure he’s been missing us.”

“OK then. Onwards!”

No one saw the sliver of blue eye which watched them go.

**

When Nick returned three quarters of an hour later, Tyson was, unfortunately, awake.

“Hey, Chris, can you - oh, it’s you.” When Tyson seemed set to slip back into his customary Nick-silence, Nick sighed and prompted:

“Can I...?”

“I want to see Shabba.” Tyson said coolly.

“And?” Nick asked, prepared to be just as unresponsive as Tyson.

“So can you go get him? And not come back?”

Nick sighed. “Are you ever going to forgive me? Because this whole anger thing you have going is getting really boring.” In retrospect, that might not have been the best thing to say.

“Funny that, because that whole drugs thing you had going was pretty dull too.” Tyson shot back viciously. “Except, oh wait, I didn’t have the energy to bitch about it, because I was sick.”

“Which you cunningly forgot to mention!” Nick snapped.

Tyson shrugged. “Because you’d have been so willing to listen.”

“I would have done if you’d asked me to!”

Tyson’s only response was a raised eyebrow and a yawn. “Look, I’d love to lie here and argue with you some more, but I’m kind of tired and I really need to see Shabba. So, if you wouldn’t mind...”

Nick slammed down his pile of magazines and slammed out of the room.

**

“No. No way! Not in a million years!”

“Shabba-”

“No, are you absolutely insane?! Not content with half-killing yourself on tour, you want to let me throw you, half-dead, to the vultures!”

“Shabba, it’s-”

“No! Have the meds eaten away all your mental functions?! Have you completely lost it?!”

“You’re turning purple.” Tyson commented, perhaps unwisely.

Shabba choked incoherently. “Of course I am! Of course I am, you suicidal moron! Anyone who’s forced to spend the amount of time with you that I am should permanently be a rich plum colour with frustration! This is, without a doubt, the worst idea you’ve ever had, in a long, long string of bad ideas. Which is why I am going to go back to my enormous pile of magazines and read about Lindsey Lohan’s hair extension and latest cocaine fuelled blunder and we are never going to mention this again!”

“Now, you see,” Tyson said, eminently reasonable, “you said ‘Lindsey Lohan’ and then your mind instantly went to cocaine. Is that what you want for me? For our band!?”

“Don’t you make those eyes at me, Ritter. I will not be convinced. This idea is insane and I am immediately discounting it.”

“No, you’re not.” Tyson grinned. “I can see it in your eyes.”

“No.” Shabba sighed.

“OK then, fine. Look, they will see me - like this, yes?”

“What, half-dead?!”

“You’re catching on!” Tyson’s pleased grin widened. “Green and sick and skinny and with this cough and it’ll back up all the stuff they’ve heard from the leak in the hospital.”

Shabba paused - he had a point. Then: “How do you know about that?”

Tyson waved a careless hand. “I have my sources.” He unbent a little. “Also, my band are really loud. I woke up whilst you were talking.”

“And didn’t immediately demand unwavering attention. I’m almost impressed.” Shabba snarked. “So... theoretically - if I was to go along with your insane idea, theoretically!” Tyson was looking horribly smug. “But if I was... who would you want an interview with?”

“Well, I was thinking five - three magazines and two TV-”

“No, no and no.” Shabba glared at him. “No way. One, and that’s only if I decide it’s a really good idea.”

Tyson sighed, exhaustion appearing on his face. “I don’t have the energy for this. Five interviews, Shabba - we need this information coming at people from as many places as possible, we can’t leave everyone remembering us as the drugged up band until I get back on my feet.”

“I liked you when you were playing dumb.” Shabba grumbled. “And I liked it when you were healthy. And when every argument didn’t end in ‘I’m tired’. You know we can’t defend ourselves against that yet!”

“Because Dr. Rees would show you his wrath, yes, I know.” Tyson yawned wearily. “Those halcyon days will return, my friend! Just as soon as you organise interviews for me with OK! - they’ve always liked us - NME and Tatler.”

“Oh, aim higher. Try.”

“I have faith in you.” Tyson’s eyes were starting to close. “Then how about MTV and People’s Interest for TV?”

“I haven’t said yes!” Shabba pleaded.

Tyson, almost asleep, lifted a shoulder. “You haven’t said no.”

“OK, but... no promises, alright?” Shabba stood wearily. “I’ll organise what I can for when you’re let out of here.”

“’nks, Shabba.” Tyson, rapidly slipping into sleep, never saw his tour manager leave the room.

**

Shabba’s earlier talk with Dr. Rees had proved fruitless. “I’m sorry that your privacy is being compromised here, believe me,” the doctor had told him, signing off on one of his seemingly endless charts, “but with the hospital full to bursting like this, I don’t have the time to look into it as closely as I would like. Doesn’t mean I won’t,” he hastened to clarify as Shabba’s expression darkened, “but it means the results won’t be as fast as you’d like.”

“Can’t you stop this sort of thing happening at all?”

For the first time, Dr. Rees looked him in the eye, his own exhausted. “There’s a recession right now and we can’t afford to pay our student nurses as well as we would like. It’s sad, but sometimes money speaks louder than ethics.” He gave a small smile. “Your popstar is quite a celebrity, it seems.”

Shabba managed a smile himself and didn’t correct the popstar thing.

Further enquiry seemed over the top.

In lieu of anything else to do, he rang the specified magazines and TV stations and organised the appearances that Tyson wanted. With the rumours and controversy surrounding them at the moment, most of them were all too delighted to interview him; Shabba was torn between smugness and revulsion. He still wasn’t sure Tyson knew what he was letting himself in for.

**

Thanks to the tedium of the next week or so, Tyson had a very good idea of what to expect. He had improved somewhat over the past week, his cough diminishing though not disappearing - Dr. Rees assured him that the fluid in his lungs was clearing up thanks to the antibiotics and was cautiously pleased with his progress, which in turn led to cautious optimism on everyone else’s part. They were all thoroughly sick of the hospital, Tyson more than anyone.

In his boredom - and after the nurses had banned him from playing hopscotch down the hospital corridors; Tyson’s few excursions out of bed had not gone well - he had been making his way through the enormous pile of magazines Shabba had left behind him.

“After Ritter’s dramatic onstage collapse in Roslin, West Virginia, Elle interviewed the remaining Rejects, who, in the aftermath, seemed to veer sharply between the hysterical and the maudlin. Guitarist Nick Wheeler, rhythm guitarist Mike Kennerty and drummer Chris Gaylor spoke to us about coping on tour, the events of the past week and their frontman himself, currently in hospital. Ritter’s mysterious illness has prompted many drugs rumours in their more recent interviews, but the band were close-mouthed about the causes. “Tour is always a bit hectic,” Wheeler volunteered before subsiding to make way for Mike Kennerty’s pearls of wisdom: “Ty was sick - we’re on tour, things pile up. We piss each other off... we must have missed it.” Wheeler was more blunt about it. “We’re plenty worried,” he said, “and we’re worried about how this will affect our friendship.” A strange choice of words, perhaps, in the midst of all the rumours flying around - how what will affect their friendship, exactly? - but Wheeler refused to comment further.

So, there are storm clouds in the Reject’s future if they can’t quell these drugs rumours, repair their relationship and get their frontman on his feet again after his strange and sudden collapse. But, as Kennerty so wisely points out, “you can’t have the rainbow without a little rain.”

Tyson laughed as he hadn’t in weeks, and when Mike appeared with coffee, he was still giggling through the aftershocks. “Kennerty, where’s my fuckin’ rainbow?”

Mike grinned. “You, er, saw that, huh?”

“Dude, I’m framing this copy!” Tyson brandished it.

“Yeah, well. No one else was talking, someone had to fill in the long silences. And, hey, all that day time TV made me a guru of magazine wisdom.”

Tyson threw up the horns at his friend and Mike grinned again, giving him a thumbs up in response.

“So, looking forward to getting out of here?”

“Oh god, so much.”

“Though, it must be nice to know you’re not going to have to walk out of here under your own steam.”

“...what?!”

“Oh, you didn’t know?” Mike’s face was a picture of innocence. “You’re getting the full royal treatment - right down to the wheelchair.”

“The fuck?!” Tyson’s expression darkened. “People’re gonna think I’m dying! And I can walk just fine! I was walking perfectly, brilliantly even, that was some inspired walking I was doing! A week and a half in bed doesn’t mean I can’t do it!”

“We all remember what happened when you tried to get to the nurse’s station...”

“There were fifty of them!” Tyson defended himself, robustly. “And they were rattlesnakes!”

“You were found half an hour later slumped an exact six feet from your room and two nurses had to help you back to bed. Picture of health you ain’t, buddy.”

“I’m healthy enough to walk out of this hospital under my own steam!”

“OK, consider this then - which is more embarrassing, being wheeled out and making a fast getaway, or trying to walk, falling over and being hoiked back into the sweet, sweet care of Matron Cass?”

Tyson had to admit, Kennerty made a persuasive argument. “Doesn’t mean I like it, though. And if Wheeler comes near me when I’m vulnerable-!”

“Give it a rest, Ty.” Mike settled comfortably into his chair. “Nick’s beating the shit out of himself for it.”

“Yeah? Good.” Tyson’s face was set in uncharacteristically unforgiving lines.

“This is childish, even for you. The guy made a mistake!”

“Several, as I recall, and you shared half of ‘em, so I wouldn’t go reminding me.”

“Yeah, and you forgave me!” Mike persisted.

“You haven’t known me since I was thirteen.” Tyson pointed out stubbornly. “He has no excuse. He’s just lucky I’m not gonna tell his momma.”

“Aww, the big bad rockstar gonna tell Nick’s mommy?”

“You’re a cruel man, Kennerty. And hey, Mrs. Wheeler is fierce.”

“I don’t doubt it. No twenty seven year old man should look that frightened when he’s telling his mom he’s spending Christmas somewhere else.”

“Pity Nick didn’t inherit her backbone.” Tyson said unkindly.

“So, what, you’re going to throw away twelve years of friendship and our band because of a mistake?”

“No. I’m simply going to make his life a misery for the foreseeable future.”

“Yeah. Well. Make sure you don’t irreparably damage something you don’t want to irreparably damage.”

“Like what?” Tyson challenged, mouth set.

Mike considered his options and decided that screaming, “your epic, fated, star-crossed love!’ was probably not the way forward. “Your friendship’s been around a long time, man.” He said finally.

“I’m not the one who forgot that first.”

“But you’re going to make damn sure you’re the one who forgot it last? Sensible!” he shook his head. “Nice to know we’re all grown-ups here.”

“Look, I’m just giving as good as I got, and it won’t last as long. But right now, I’m pretty fucking angry and I don’t like being around him.” He waved an effete hand. “My recovery, you know.” Tyson’s retreats into self-deprecation were legendary and Mike ignored them.

“And pretty hurt, too, right?” Dangerous ground, but it needed to be crossed.

“What?”

“Well, y’know.” He trod very carefully. “He’s your best friend, known him for a long time, bet you thought he’d be the last person to disbelieve you like that. And, y’know...” he bit his lip then shrugged. “It’s easy for friendships to cross the line. Sometimes.”

“Kennerty, what the fuck are you-” Evidently Tyson wasn’t running at maximum receptivity right now.

“You love him.” When Tyson’s expression became murderous, Mike fought the urge to retreat. “Well. I. Just thought I’d get that one out there. Put it on the table, see what we make of it. Take it or leave it. Y’know. Just. I. Yeah.”

“Get out or I hit my panic button.” Tyson said, voice eerily calm. Mike stayed where he was. “I’m serious, Kennerty.” His hand hovered over the large red call button.

Mike stayed put. “Ty, don’t be a dick.”

“No, really. Fuck off.” Tyson’s face was set. “Or you can deal with the nurses when I press this thing.”

“Tyson-”

“Mike, I’ve dealt with that for - however long, I don’t need you and your Dr. Phil advice telling me how to cope. So unless you want to be escorted out of here by someone half your size, I suggest you get the fuck out. And find me Shabba.”

“You need to talk it out!”

“Remember what I said about Dr. Phil?” Tyson’s eyebrow inched dangerously upwards.

“I’m going! Why do you want to see Shabba, anyway?”

Tyson looked up, disinterested. “Haven’t you pried into my private business enough for one day?” he asked caustically, and Mike didn’t dare question further.

**

Nick tended to avoid Tyson’s room when he knew Tyson was going to be awake - it did no good to anyone to have them arguing all the time, and he hadn’t much heart for it whilst Tyson looked like a fully paid up member of the undead. But Tyson had a fairly firmly established pattern of sleep now; a few hours in the morning, a few in the afternoon, and a good, solid eleven hours at night. So heading for his room to sit with him at about three was a safe bet.

Not today, apparently.

“So, how overplayed do you think your illness has been?” An unfamiliar voice floated through the gap in the door, and Nick frowned.

“You know you’re not supposed to be in here.” Tyson’s voice, and he sounded tired; always a bad sign right now.

“Yes, Mr. Ritter, just a moment more.” Bright, cheerful and irrepressible - definitely media.

“No comment, now get out!”

“Would you say that your illness has been exaggerated to combat all the drugs rumours?”

“A shocking reprisal of my previous answer.” Tyson managed an impressive mix of implacable and acid. “You can go now.”

“Is there something I can help you with?” Nick asked pointedly from the door. Polar bears would have shivered.

For the first time since he woke up, there was a look of relief on Tyson’s face as Nick came into the room. The blonde, tiny reporter beamed at him unashamedly.

“Ah, Mr. Wheeler!” She came towards him, brandishing her Dictaphone. “Any comment from you about Mr. Ritter’s illness - overstated, or not?”

“I think you should leave.” Nick said, equally implacable. Tyson was lying back in bed, face lined with exhaustion, and Nick didn’t want to know how far this might have set things back. “This is a hospital.” Giving her anything further would just go into her poorly researched and biased article, he thought unkindly. Hand on her elbow, he steered her outside and shut the door firmly behind them. “Do I have to actually see you to the door or can you find it yourself?”

“Mr. Wheeler, the public have-”

“If you try to feed me the bollocks about your public having a right to know, you will find yourself digesting the Dictaphone soon.” He said tightly. “My friend is sick and you aren’t helping. Which magazine are you from anyway?”

“Reveal.” She said proudly, naming a newer tabloid who scraped the bottom of the barrel even more closely than most. “And your fans-”

“Anyone who’s a fan we want to keep will respect the fact that Tyson is seriously ill and wish him the best. I’m sure they wouldn’t want you coming in here and bothering him until you give him a setback.” He smiled down at her - the smile had knives in it. “I hope you’re inoculated against mono, Miss...?”

“Reisler.” She told him, rather unwillingly.

“Excellent - now I know about whom to issue a formal complaint. I do hope it’s not your first week on the job.” Another sharp smile. “Are you going yet?”

Desperation evidently made her persistent. “But Mr. Wheeler-”

No more smiles. “Look, I appreciate you trying to do whatever job your editor set you, but this is above and beyond.” He snapped. “Tyson is sick and you’re making him worse - and there are a lot of people who are not going to be happy about that.”

“So you’d say Mr. Ritter is popular amongst the-”

“There’s an overtired and overworked set of crewmembers down the hall.” Nick told her sharply, losing what little of his patience he still had. “I’m sure they would just love to meet you and escort you out.”

She cast him a worried look and straightened rather huffily. “There’s no need for that - I believe I can find the door.”

“Do it now.” He told her and watched her go before turning back into Tyson’s room and shutting the door firmly behind him. Tyson looked up, and if Nick had been paying attention - if he hadn’t been quietly seething, as tired and frustrated as he was - he might have noticed the slight softening of Tyson’s expression. As it was: “Tyson, you’ve got a call button for a reason. Next time, use it.”

The shutters slammed down. “What, you mean you won’t be protecting me from all the big bad reporters? Oh, wait, I forgot, you don’t believe in coming to people’s assistance - they’re only journalists, right?”

“There’s a difference between you ‘defending’ Chris against an accusation which isn’t aimed at him and a direct attack on a sick man.” Nick snapped back.

“Unless she was beating me with her itty-bitty Dictaphone, I don’t think you can call it an attack!”

“She was endangering your health, what else would you call it?!”

Tyson changed tack abruptly. “Oh, pity! Yay me. I was wondering when that’d arrive.”

“Oh, shut up, Tyson, for God’s sake. It’s not pity, it’s just-”

“What? Old times’ sake?”

“We’re gonna fix this.” Nick said pleadingly. “But right now I’m-”

“Trying to get away from the fact you were a total dick? Yeah, I noticed.”

“Right, because you were such a sweetheart during the whole thing! Yeah, you were totally well adjusted, weren’t you?” Having been shot down, Nick’s instinctive response was to go on the defensive. “Just because you passed out and I didn’t doesn’t make you some kind of martyr, Tyson.”

“No, it doesn’t, but at least I had illness to blame for being a complete dickwad. What’s your excuse?”

“Having the most frustrating best friend since Judas?”

“Ooh, a Bible reference, aren’t you a big boy?”

“Tyson, for the love of God-”

“Shut up!” Tyson seemed to have completely snapped. His voice, still not up to anything like its usual strength, cracked over the words and he strained through clearing his throat. “You don’t get to waltz back in here pretending like nothing happened and you were a good supportive friend all the way through!”

“I don’t know why I didn’t see this coming anyway!” Nick retorted, lashing out in lieu of proper defence. “Twelve years is a long time, we just grew apart. We were two guys who started a band, but we haven’t been those people for years - you were too busy loving the rockstar life, going for every fan around, hamming up modelling, sucking up to reporters and talking about how ‘awesome’ you were with this life. I’m sorry, did I interrupt something back there? Cos I’m sure Miss Reisler is quite prepared to come back so you can continue your official biography.”

“You are so full of shit.” Tyson hissed back. “We’re not-” He coughed, the sound tearing at his throat. “We’re going to-” Another hacking cough. “I don’t think...” the tone of his voice changed, more worried than angry now, and he almost doubled up coughing, a deep-seated rasp which shook through his entire body, almost seeming to echo through him. For a moment, Nick stared, horrified, then he jerked into action, lunging to the bed and almost lying on top of Tyson to slam his hand on the call button.

“OK, Jesus, dude, I - deep breaths is not the right thing to say right now is it?” Nick let out a faintly panicked giggle, and Tyson continued to rasp horribly, snatching breaths between coughs, giving Nick a vicious look out of the corner of one, watering eye. “Um, calm, OK? Just - calm, try and relax. I - oh, thank God!”

The nurses swooped in, calm and assured, and Nick was gently manoeuvred out the way. When all the activity was over and Tyson was lying back in his bed, face grey and breathing deeply into the oxygen mask, Nick approached gingerly.

“Um. Thanks for not dying?” Tyson didn’t risk speech - he simply glared over the oxygen mask. Nick swallowed. “I. You just won yourself a ‘get out of bitch free’ card?” He tried, but Tyson shook his head and shut his eyes very deliberately. There was nothing more to be said, and Nick tiptoed away.

**

Despite the set-back, Tyson was released two days later, his voice still rasping horribly in his throat and horribly skinny. The leak had never been stopped, and his departure from the hospital was marked with a respectably sized group of photographers and a few fans, whose presence kept the reporters in check. Tyson played up to the small crowd, but his trip between the hospital and the hotel knocked him for six and he spent the rest of the day sleeping.

It wasn’t quite the victorious home-coming they’d all imagined. The only person who was really made happy by it was Tyson, who was just relieved to be out from under the watchful eyes of the nurses. True, their influence had followed him out of the hospital in the form of an impressively bland diet-sheet, and Tyson spent what few waking minutes he had that day complaining about it.

“Buttered toast?” he muttered moodily at Mike. “Seriously?”

Mike beamed happily at him. “Oh, it’s not butter, that’s too rich. It’ll be margarine.”

“Margarine? As in spread? As in that saturated fat based crapwhy do you hate me!?” Tyson rasped.

Mike just laughed. “You sound like Darth Vader. Darth Tyson! I like it. Can I call you Darth Tyson?”

“No.”

Unfortunately for Tyson, the name stuck, and by the time he woke up the next morning, his and Nick’s room had been nicknamed the Death-Star. Nor was his mood improved by breakfast, greeted as he was when he made his rather shaky way into the dining room - assisted, to his horror, by Shabba: “touch me and you die!” - by the sight of his band enjoying pancakes and bacon.

“And what would you like, sweetie?” the motherly waitress asked kindly, noting the stark cheekbones and shadowed eyes.

“He’ll be having toast, please, ma’am.” Toad cut in quickly, noting the covetous looks Tyson was shooting at his pancakes. Three weeks into his recovery, Tyson’s eyes were markedly bigger than his stomach; they had, in fact, developed delusions of grandeur, and roast meals.

Tyson took a sulky seat next to Chris and eyed his coffee with resentment. Chris moved it gently away from him and shrugged. “You can have coffee. You just can’t have any milk in it.”

“Right, so, just tar then really.”

“Yeah, pretty much. But it’s coffee!”

“Tar, Gaylor. Tar.” He sat back moodily, and they all tried to ignore the way his T-shirt settled into the bumps of his ribs. “It’s like I’m being punished for getting sick.”

“You are.” Shabba told him comfortably. “And for being such a moron that you didn’t tell us. Feel better now?”

“Yes. Martyrdom is my calling.” His eyes flickered to Nick who flushed and looked away.

There was a quiet minute or two before Tyson’s toast arrived, and Mike grinned at him when it did. “Eat it before it gets cold!” he sing-songed, poking at it with his knife.

Tyson glared at him. “Go curl up and die, Kennerty.” He snapped.

“Stop being such a pissy bitch, Tyson.” Chris said cheerfully. “You can have honey on it if you like.”

“I hate honey.”

“Don’t be such a baby.”

“I hate all of you, too.”

“We know. Now shut up and eat your toast.”

As Tyson sullenly chewed his way through his toast, everyone ignored him in favour of their own breakfast and their own conversations, disrupted by his and Shabba’s arrival. It was only when Tyson finished his first piece of toast - and reluctantly, if silently, admitted that he was full - that he dropped his bombshell.

“So, when are we making up for the concerts that we missed?” There was a minute’s silence before everyone went back to their food, resolutely ignoring his question. “Guys, I’m serious! What’s been sorted out?”

“Nothing’s been sorted.” Nick said, speaking up for the first time without looking up. “Cobra Starship are filling in for us, they’ll make it to the end of the tour - and we share something of a fanbase. I’m not saying people will be delighted, but they’ll understand.”

“But what are we doing about it?” Tyson asked the table in general. “I don’t want to be that band that pulls out of everything.”

Mike’s face was sombre. “We pulled out because you collapsed on stage. That’s not indicative of a trend.”

“But we should at least try and make it up to people.”

Shabba shook his head. “Ty, it’s not viable. We couldn’t use the same venues because we don’t know if we could fill them; how many people were coming because of Fall-Out Boy and how many were coming because of us? How many people would want to spend that much money again to see one band? It’s not worth what it would cost us to reorganise the venues.”

“We should at least try.” Tyson repeated stubbornly.

“No, we shouldn’t.” Nick said abruptly. “Even if what Shabba just said wasn’t true, there is no way you could do seven concerts right now.”

Tyson met Nick’s eyes over the table then shrugged. The mere thought of seven concerts - all the energy they required - made him go cold, but he wasn’t going to admit that right now. “Not right now.” He agreed; he wasn’t stupid. “But in a month or so, maybe - do a kind of mini-tour, maybe fourteen shows, see if The Upwelling want to come with to open for us; giving them some publicity and us a chance to make it up to however many people were there just to see us.”

Nick looked down. “Then I guess it’s up to you and Shabba. If you think you can do it...” he trailed off.

Tyson’s snippy reply was almost instinctive at this point. “Oh, Nicky, I didn’t know you cared.”

“Of course I do, you dumb bastard.” Nick snapped, and stood up. “I’ll be on the bus.”

**

Part Nine

**