Melodramatic Metathesiophobe

Relief

When he eventually managed to open his caked eyes, it was unfortunate that he could still feel the weight and pressure on his spine, the ache of the newly formed flesh sending unpleasant shivers up the rest of his back. He had no will to get up, no energy to move, just a need to sit in bed and waste away and wait until he died of starvation or something stupid like that.

What finally got him up was his buzzing phone. He sat up, back aching with protest and his tail a sagging lump of ratty fur behind him as he got up to check what the source of the buzzing was. And it was a very unfortunate reality that he had over ten messages and two missed calls from Mikey. That was just a bad omen.

From what he managed to scan through, it was mostly just about asking where he was, why he was being so isolated, asking if he just hated Mikey or something, and Ray's heart began to hurt worse than his whole body.

The most recent messages were from five and two minutes ago, the first reading 'I don't care anymore, I'm coming to see you whether you want me to or not, I'm worried about you' and the second reading 'OMW,' which was a death sentence. It meant he had around ten to fifteen minutes to compose himself and his home, which was not enough. And he was correct, too, by the time Mikey buzzed to be let in, he'd only managed to tidy his living room and kitchen and make himself look like less of a living mess, which wasn't much. He'd done his hair to cover his ears, taught himself to speak without revealing much of his teeth, clipped his nails as much as it was uncomfortable, and tucked his tail down his pant leg. It wasn't the most glorious solution but it was the best he could do.

Taking a deep breath, he let Mikey in, waiting nervously for him to say something and pleading he wasn't sweating as much as the heat of his body told him he was. He'd gotten accustomed to not wearing full on shirts, pants and hoodies, and now that he was, it was like going from the coolness of Canada to the heat of Florida. Regardless, it wasn't a good feeling and he was hot and prickly all over and—

He didn't have more time to complain. Mikey was at the door. He opened it, running a hand through his hair and itching his hands maybe a bit more than he thought. To his surprise--and more importantly, relief--Mikey didn't give him any weird looks aside from the expected frown laced with worry.

"Ray," he said, stepping inside, "what- I mean, dude, what the hell? Why are you doing this? Didn't you get my messages?"

"Not until I woke up, which was ten minutes ago," Ray crossed his arms a little, "I'm tired, I told you,"

"Yeah, like a month ago!" Mikey advanced and Ray stepped back upon reflex, "you don't talk to me anymore," the hurt in his voice was tangible.

"Because I would rather keep the sickness to myself" Ray felt himself getting defensive, "the last thing I want is anyone--especially you--to catch what I've got," and he really didn't. Mikey probably would have given up wholly by this time, either that or he ended up being alone on a particularly rough night and passed out on his lonesome.

"How have you been sick this long? Toro, if you're still sick then we have problems--as long as I've known you, you have not been sick more than a week! Your immune system is impressive!! It's almost been four weeks now, you need to go to the doctor!"

"No, Mikey," Ray sighed, regretting talking at all, "I'm fine, it's just the fever I can't kick. Its going down but I really don't want to risk infecting the band,"

"That's no cause to shut yourself off from everyone," Mikey advanced again, worried beyond belief as told by his eyes, "I'm worried about you! Why do you keep blocking me out??"

"Because I'm almost over it, just-- I'm fine, I'll come to dinner with you and Gerard this week, how's that?"

"I know you don't want to," Mikey's voice was one of pure concern, "you look horrible, Ray, you're not okay, you look like you're burning up," he advanced once more, hand out as if to touch, and Ray's heartbeat spiked.