butterflies ઇଓ matt sturniolo imagines

𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘭 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘵 ***

content warning:
moderate descriptions of puke/puking,
vague descriptions of a hospital visit,
moderate description of being given an iv
(includes needles).
nothing is graphic, just mentioned
in a clean, medical way.

ॱ⋅.˳˳.⋅˙ॱᐧ.˳˳.⋅ઇଓ

when you woke up to an empty bed, you knew something wasn't right. and as an overthinker, this was the worst possible way to start the morning.

where is matt? is he awake? did he go somewhere? why wouldn't he wake me up? what is he doing? is he okay? is he safe? what if he got kidnapped? what if he's stuck somewhere, or in a car crash, or lying dead on the side of the street-

there was a series of coughs that erupted from the bathroom down the hall, and then a muffled, "jesus christ!" that wiped your panicked slate clean.

okay, so he's in the bathroom, you thought. good lord, i'm crazy.

the coughing bubbled up again, then stopped abruptly and was replaced with a disgusting sloshing sound- one you recognized all too well. you leapt out of bed and darted down the hallway, finding your boyfriend doubled over the toilet bowl.

"oh, god," you knelt down beside him and pushed his hair back on his head. you scrunched your nose at the smell, but the worry in your ribs was far more distracting to you. "what's going on?"

matt leaned back on his heels and flushed the toilet, and wiped the corners of his mouth with the back of his hand. at a first glance, he was ghostly- and upon further inspection, his skin was so pale it looked translucent, almost blue. his lips were chapped and cracked, and there was a sheen of cold sweat coating his forehead and neck. for lack of better explanation, the boy looked like shit.

"i don't know," matt croaked, "i woke up sick, i guess."

you reached up to kiss his forehead, remembering a tidbit your mother once told you: the lips are the most sensitive, so they can gage a temperature better than a hand might. the boy's skin was so hot it caught you off guard, and he shivered as you pulled away.

"oh, sweetheart, you're burning up," you frowned.

"it's probably just a cold."

"matt, colds don't include fevers. fevers include fevers. and nausea."
he had that drowsy droop to his eyes, and his rosy cheeks were neon against his pale face. the pit of your stomach ached seeing him look so sick.
    "is this the first time you've thrown up?" you inquired. when he stayed quiet, you pressed further: "matt, how many times did you puke this morning?"

     "...three. including now."

"oh, matt! you should've woken me up! do you think you'll throw up again?"

he shook his head, and grunted what you took to be a no.

"okay. can you get up for me?" you stood up first and took his hands, helping him off the bathroom tile. "good. alright, let's get you back in bed."

"love, please, i'm fine-"

"i'll be the judge of that. come on."

you walked matt back to his bedroom and forced him to lay back down, ignoring all of his futile attempts to get you to stop. once he was tucked back under the covers, you smiled softly. he always looked so cute all bundled up that way.

"i'm gonna get the thermometer and some things for you. i'll bring a trash can in, too. stay put."

"but-"