not enough

2 - above and beyond

Tom sits in his room, at his desk, stacks of books open, making his usually spotless room a messy nightmare. His nose was blocked and a throbbing headache was attacking the inside of his skull, despite having refilled and finished the pint of water beside him twice.
His parents had said not to stop revising until the exams had finished, and they expected everything to be at the very least an A. Of course they did. The final of the finals, Mathematics Higher, his worst and most hated subject, was tomorrow. Then they'd all have a day or so off and then Friday was graduation.

He'd already made up his mind that as soon as tomorrow's exam was done and dusted, he would not be coming back to school, not even for graduation. He would pretend to go in, but go to the library instead, he still wanted to be deadly sure that everything was going to go to plan over the summer. Nobody would miss him, to everyone else at the school, he was the weird cold-hearted gay perfectionist with no friends.
What hurt the most, though, was that they all were horribly right.

He felt so ill.
He'd been stuck inside for hours, and if he wasn't at school stuffing as much information inside his head as possible, he was at home, doing the same. And he was tired, so, so tired. He hadn't missed this many nights of sleep in his whole life.
Tom stares at the paper. Sniffs.

88x² + 73x - 35 = 0. Find x.
Jesus.
So if he... just did that... thing, that he definitely knew how to-
THUNK.
"Ow-" he mumbles, lifting his head up from the table. Now his head felt like it was going to actually explode. What's more, the letters and numbers were literally swimming below his eyes.
Shit.

"Tom? You good?" Sarah asks from the door.
"Mhmm-" he's hardly bothered to make an effort for the sound.
"Can I come in?"
He nods, still holding his head.
"Whatcha doin'?"
"Equations," he says, looking at her from the corner of his eyes. "I dunno how to do this, I know I've done it before but nothing- is- working,"
"Woah woah, little bro," she says, catching his face in her hands and turning it so he looks at her. "Slow down. You look dead,"
"I am, but fathe-"
"Ah-" She halts him, releasing his face and folding her arms. "No, shush. You're more important than these finals,"
"Not to him," he says unemotionally, looking at her through half lidded, bloodshot eyes.
"Tom..." She says sympathetically, tilting her head. "Get in bed,"
"No," he protests.
"You are sick. You are more than a little sleep deprived. Nothing is going to be sinking in. Get in the bed,"
"I gotta revise Sarah-" he tries again, leaning his head back on his hands and staring at the book that was filled with hundreds, if not thousands of nonsensical questions.
"Tom-" she drags out his name and gets a hold of the back of his chair, tilting it back just a smidge.
"Hey!" he cries, leaning forward to alleviate the panic from having less than four chair legs on the ground. "Don't do that!"

She sighs, replacing all of the chairs legs on the floor. "You are going to feel like you've been hit by a freight train tomorrow if you don't get in the god damn bed and get to sleep right now. Please would you just listen to me on this one occasion?"
He stares at her, knowing full well that she's right. He pushes out a long, exasperated sigh and finally agrees. "Fine,"
Sarah smiles. "I'll get you some water,"
"Can you put some... ice in it?"
"Sure thing," she replies, picking up his empty glass and leaving to refill it.

Tom gets up from the desk covered in paper and books and pretty much staggers to his bed, where he fights with the military-perfected corners of the duvet for a few moments until he can drag it open enough so he can fall, ungracefully, into it. Face down.
He sniffs.
The sniffs weren't even from hay fever, despite it being summer. It was a nervous thing now.

"Woahh... you are so sick,"
He can hear Sarah's voice from where he lay, and he sighs in acknowledgement.
"Here's your water, and ice. But just go to sleep, I'll wake you up for dinner in a few hours and you can decide if you want any,"
He attempts a thank you, but it sounds more like a "'ank cue," Naturally his mouth no longer possessed the ability to form any sort of plosive.
Sarah runs her hand across his shoulder. "Alright, Tom,"