Straight

XXVII

Jack has gone off somewhere, and normally he would go and find Eddy, he knows he probably should, in fact. And he can picture it now, as vividly as if he were really doing it. Walking into the practice room, saying hello to him, asking him how it's gone last night, letting him tell his triumphant story. But he can't go, not now, because he knows that Eddy would see through him the second he saw him. He would make him instantly and how could he explain himself? So he decides to buy himself some time. He sits down at the table and buries his head in his hands. Shakes it from side to side and winces at the movement.
How? How is he ever going to fake this?

Time must have flown, or maybe he's dozed off? Jack taps him on the shoulder and he startles out of it.
"You comin' to music history, mate?"
"Oh. Yeah." he says. Shit, is it that late already?
He gets up quickly and the world spins. His stomach churns uncomfortably, and he takes a deep breath. He can't vomit, not now, not out in the open, he just can't. He'd make a spectacle of himself. And he'd make Eddy uncomfortable. Which simply can't happen.
"You good, mate?" Jack asks.
Has he ever heard Jack be this mild, this concerned before? He looks up to him, and he almost breaks. The words are bubbling up in him, the misery. But then he smiles manfully and nods.
"Sure."
They walk together to the entrance of the auditorium. Jack is talking about some piece he's playing, but he doesn't really hear it. Because Eddy is there, in their usual spot, looking so beautiful his heart stops. Their eyes lock, Eddy's beautiful, almond shaped, and brown, his own wide and ugly, he knows. And the world stops for a second. Then his stomach churns again and he's backing away, he's running. The bathrooms are close, and he needs to make it. He clamps his hand over his mouth and bursts through the door, almost falls into a stall and doubles over, heaving, throwing up all the alcohol, all his pain.

It takes forever, this hell of his own making, and by the time it finally finishes he know he can't head back. There's no way he can sit through music theory now, because he knows he's going to throw up again. He gets up gingerly, flushes, cleans the toilet seat with some toilet paper and flushes again. Then he leans against the stall door and gathers himself.
He needs to at least get home, before he breaks. He needs to.

No one sees him as he walks out of the con quickly. They're all in lessons, or in practice rooms. He walks as fast as he can manage, looking down at the pavement to avoid the sunlight in his achy head. Luckily his room is close, and he successfully gets himself in the building and into the bathroom before he throws up again, and again.

Eventually it stops, and just the splitting headache remains. He almost crawls back to his room and crashes on the bed again. That bed, that holds so many good memories. The tears start to flow, and he tries to stop a full blown onset of wailing.
Wailing will do him no good at all. He just has to get through this, just has to make it through today. Surely tomorrow the world will already look a bit better to him again?
His stomach churns and he knows he should eat something, but he just can't bring himself to get up. He glances at the window, where the light is moving. Falls asleep for a while, but he doesn't want to sleep. Doesn't want to risk anymore gorgeous dreams.
Wrong, wrong dreams.
Eddy is not his to dream about.

The knock on the door jolts him awake, and he sits up with a shock. A quick glance at the clock tells him it's five. 
Oh my God. It's Eddy, isn't it? It has to be, who else would come here now, and despite everything his heart jumps at the thought of seeing him. But how on earth is he going to talk to Eddy? How is he going to hide all this shit? There is no way he can avoid him though, and even if he could he wouldn't. Of course not. So he swings his legs over the side of the bed carefully, shakily gets up and goes to open the door.