Becoming Us || l.h

Chapter 7

"I hate your fans," I mutter, laying back on the ice pack. My brother chuckles, tossing me a bottle of Advil. I pop it open, pouring a couple into my hand. I close the bottle and toss it back, catching the water bottle he throws to me. I take the Advil, laying back down with a wince. "I don't even know how I flipped over the barrier or how I got to their side in the first place! One second I'm with you the next I'm with them then I'm landing on my head back on your side!" I grumble, crossing my arms over my chest. "They just got over-excited is all. Don't blame them." Blake shrugs, sitting down by my feet.

"They pushed me over a metal barrier, Blake. I have a concussion. I can't be in the arena during the show for at least a week." I enunciate everything, glaring down at him. "You do not have a concussion." He sighs, shaking his head. "The doctors almost here and you have two heads. I think I have a concussion." I mutter, slumping into the couch. "Blakey!" Rachel's screeching voice pierces the air, making me cringe. "Turn her off," I mutter, closing my eyes. Rachel leads a doctor in, grinning. "Doctors here!" She announces loudly. I squeeze my eyes shut, pulling a pillow over my face.

"Dylan, is it?" The doctor asks, and I nod. "Yeah," Blake says, slowly pulling the pillow from my face. "Let's take a look at this bump then, sound good?" He asks, helping me sit up. He examines the back of my head, poking and prodding at the bump. "Can you focus on my finger?" He asks, holding it in front of my face and shining a light in my eyes. It's bright, making me squint a little. "Alright, she does have a little bit of a concussion, so no loud noises so for the next week to a week and a half, she can't be in the arenas while the show is going on. No bright light, no electronics, lots of sleep. Got it?" I nod, giving Blake a pointed look. The doctor leaves, Blake closing the dressing room door behind him.

"I really, really hate your fans," I tell him, narrowing my eyes at him. "So you said." He sighs, plopping down on the other end of the couch. Rachel sits down on his lap, running her fingers through his hair. "Blakey, would you be a doll and rub my back? This baby is getting heavier by the minute." She pouts, making me sick. So, so fake. She's twenty-three weeks pregnant, and she looks twenty weeks pregnant. This is ridiculous. I sit up, leaving the room.

I wander down the hall until I reach 5SOS's dressing room, going in. "Hey, how's your head?" Luke asks, looking up at me. "Concussed," I mutter, laying down on their couch. "Seriously?" I nod, covering my head with a pillow. "Luke! Dan wants to talk to you!" Lana shouts into the room, making me wince. "If one more person yells in my ear I will shoot them," I mutter, slowly pulling the pillow from over my face. "Luke!" Lana screeches again, and I chuck the pillow at the door, hearing it make contact with something that was not hardwood. "What the hell was that for?" She demands, glaring down at me. "She has a concussion, stop yelling," Luke says, leading her out of the dressing room. "I hate people," I mutter, grabbing another pillow and pulling it over my face.

"Do you want me to take you back to the hotel?" Ashton asks, peeking under the pillow. I nod, letting him pull me up. I follow him out to a waiting car, getting in the back seat.

-

"We go on in thirty, you good here?" Calum asks, standing in the doorway. "Yeah, I'm just going to sleep, well, try. Thanks." "Call if you need us." He says, giving me a small smile. "Thanks." I nod, closing my eyes and getting comfortable.

"I know I have to come in for my twenty-week check." I frown when I hear Rachel's voice outside the door, interrupting my peace and quiet. "I know the checkup was last week, but I didn't have time to come in. Twenty-one weeks is close enough to twenty. Calm down. I'll be in tomorrow." I stand up, walking over to the door. "I don't care that I'm going to my twenty-week check-up a week late! It's not going to kill anyone!" She says, sounding exasperated. I swing open the door, raising an eyebrow. "Twenty-one weeks and twenty-three weeks sure are far apart when we are discussing pregnancy time," I tell her, leaning on the doorframe.