Worth it

Nurse

"Ronaldo? You home?", Lars called out as he entered the Fryman family home, prying his sneakers off at the door, and shaking the rainwater off his jacket, hanging it up, "I've got season three of The X-Files!", he announced, keeping the DVD case tucked under his arm. "Ronaldo?", he called out again, not hearing a reply.

Maybe he was up in his room?

"Ron?", Lars called up the stairs.

The sound of loud coughing was given in response, and Lars wrinkled his nose, having a bad feeling about it. Walking up the stairs, he opened Ronaldo's door, and could literally feel the ick factor of disease inside.

Ronaldo was in bed, cheeks bright red and blonde curls limp and wilty as he lay there completely useless. He coughed again, wheezing weakly, "Hi, Lars."

"Jesus Christ, are you sick?", Lars groaned, looking around the room. There was already a trash can overflowing with tissues, and what looked like some cough drops thoughtfully left there by either Peedee or Mr. Fryman.

"I'm just...a little under the weather," Ronaldo groaned, trying to sit up, but his whole body felt like weights were tying it down, so he flopped back on the mattress like a useless blob of snot.

"You're like six feet under," Lars muttered, "You look terrible."

"No really, I'm fine I-" Ronaldo's sentence was cut off by horribly loud and congested coughing, hacking, and wheezing, and Lars backed away.

"Ughhhhhh," Lars grimaced, and began to look around the room, seeing what he could do to make this less of a hazard zone. He pulled at the cord to open the blinds over the teen's bed, allowing some light to shed into the room. It was raining, but still late morning, so it was a step ahead of the hazy darkness he'd walked into.

"Let's open this window a crack, this place is stuffy," Lars grumbled, and once that was taken care of, he looked at the useless sick lump on the bed, "You look pathetic."

"Thanks, Captain Obvious," Ronaldo mumbled, giving a bubbly sniffle.

Ew. Lars mumbled that he'd be back in a minute, and walked into the Frymans' bathroom to access their medicine cabinet. He grabbed a face mask and disinfectant spray, refusing to touch anything Germaldo had laid his grubby little hands on.

"Cover your mouth," Lars warned as he marched into the room, and immediately began to spray everything in sight. Soon the whole room smelled strongly of antiseptic, and his eyes were a little watery.

Ronaldo was coughing again, "God, you didn't have to use that much!"

"I have no idea how much stuff you've touched since you got sick, I ain't takin' chances!"

"And you complain when I insist you clean your messy room!"

"That's different. This is germs we're talking about here," Lars grumbled, "Not aesthetic."

Ronaldo was about to retort, but paused to hack up a lung or two, and flopped onto his mattress, burying his snotty, feverish face into his pillow with a groan. He hated getting sick, because it never happened often with his immune system, and when it did, he would get really sick, and it was complete agony and annoyance. He would take Lars' occasional small colds over this mega-flu.

"You should probably go home," Ronaldo mumbled, glancing up from his pillow, seeing Lars staring at him with annoyance.

"And let this house be a pit of disease and misery? No thank you," he insisted, and told Ronaldo to stay laid down while he headed out of the room once again. He rifled through the medicine cabinet again, pulling out the cold medicines and checking their expiration dates. He cursed when he saw they were all expired, and snapped at Ronaldo 'not to move a fucking inch' while he headed out, hopping on his bike to his house, a seven minute pedal in the rain, and grabbed his own arsenal of medicinal aids, rushing back to Ronaldo's, raincoat soaked, but armed at the ready to handle the ick factor.