Be More Chill Oneshots

I'm fine, really- Michael/Jeremy

Based off a prompt from this INCREDIBLE Tumblr page I found when I typed sickfic prompts. Check it out! Anyways, I just love sickfics too much so here's another one! Enjoy!

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Michael's p.o.v

"Um... Jeremy...?"

I sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes and reaching for my glasses. Jeremy is lying next to me. He's still asleep. I prod him in the side, but he just mumbles a little and rolls onto his side away from me.

My stomach is churning. I don't think reduced-price sushi from the dodgy corner shop round the block was the best idea for dinner. My voice trembles as I try to wake Jeremy up, because I'm pretty sure that any second now I'm going to hurl. The stale smell of the basement isn't helping.

All of a sudden, it gets to the point where vomit rises in my throat and waking Jeremy up is the last thing on my mind. I throw the covers off of myself and sprint across the room. Mr Heere decided about 4 months ago when I moved in that it was high-time for us two to have our own bathroom downstairs.

I run into the small bathroom, but I'm so close to throwing up that opening the toilet lid, kneeling down and actually throwing up seems like far too much work. So the sink it is, then. Slapping my hand over my mouth, I throw myself at the sink, gripping the sides tightly as I empty my stomach into it. Gagging, I spit out little chunks of vomit, groaning softly to myself.

Jeremy snores and shuffles in the other room.

Standing up a little straighter, I wrinkle my nose as I look at the vomit in the sink. It stinks like hell, and I turn on the tap in the hope to wash it away.

It doesn't wash away.

Panicked, I watch the vomit swirl with the water, rising in the sink. In a huge flapping panic, I plunge my hand into the mess and dig around in the plughole. I gag, angling myself away from the sink. It's all lumpy and soft and gross... before I can stop myself, I'm puking again, but I don't reach the sink this time. Instead, it goes all down my t-shirt- my white t-shirt that is actually Jeremy's and smells like him (well, used to before now)- and pools at my feet. It's warm and slippery and not very nice at all.

Finally, the snoring from outside stops, and I hear Jeremy do that weird little noise he does when he's waking up. Thank God. I don't think I can make it on my own throwing up again.

I listen to Jeremy pad along the basement, still frantically trying to unblock the sink whilst attempting to wipe the vomit off my stolen t-shirt with a damp cloth. Looking in fear towards the door, I watch as Jeremy appears at the doorway, yawning and rubbing his eyes like a cute little kid. As soon as he sees me, his hands drop and he stares at me.

"Aw, baby," he finally says after a few minutes of us just staring at each other, only broken for me to turn round and vomit into the sink again. "Was it the sushi?"

"Of course it was the fucking sushi," I reply, still tightly gripping the ceramic on the sink. Then I pause. "Sorry, I just... don't feel too good."

"I can tell," Jeremy says dryly, coming forward towards me. "Is that my t-shirt?"

"Sorry," I reply miserably, abandoning the sink and pulling the t-shirt off. I move back towards Jeremy, giving him a quick hug.

"C'mon, let's get you back to bed," he whispers, leading me away from the sink. I look back it and start to frantically apologise. Jeremy brushes it off. "Don't worry about it," he simply says.

Once I'm settled in the bed- well, as settled as you can be when you're sitting bolt upright with your arms clenched around your cramping stomach and feeling as if you're going to puke any second- Jeremy disappears upstairs. Barely 30 seconds later, he pops back again, this time with his dad in tow.

Mr Heere does not look happy at being woken up at... Jesus, 2 a.m! He's pantless like normal, and is rubbing his eyes, but seems to wake up a bit when he sees me. Jeremy shuffles forward and passes me a basin. I position it against my chest, just under my mouth so all I have to do is duck my head and throw up. Useful, eh?

"You ill, Michael?" Mr Heere asks. I give him a look. "Are your parents home?"

That's a good question. Are they? No, they would've called if they were. However, Ma gave me a prepaid cell phone that's equipped for long-distance calls without costing a small fortune.

I shake my head, giving Jeremy a knowing look. I mime with one hand making a phone call.

"The emergency cell?" Jeremy says, cocking his head to the side. He looks absolutely adorable. I nod.

Jeremy goes over to where my pants are lying in the middle of the floor, going into the back pocket of them and retrieving the phone. He types for a minute or two on it and then I hear it start to ring. He puts it on the bed close to me so I can talk into it. It connects after just two rings.

"Mikey?" Ma's worried voice comes from the phone. "Are you okay? You never call!"

"I'm ill, Ma," I sniffle, my voice hoarse from vomiting. "I don't feel too good."

"Oh, baby!" she coos. I hear now that she sounds tired and groggy.

"Where are you?" I ask.

"London, baby. It's 7 in the morning. What time is it over there."

"2 a.m."

She coos again, and I wish she were here so she could cuddle me and tell me it's all going to be okay like she did when I was younger.

"Look, baby, we've gotta go," she says softly. My heart deflates. "I'll call you later, okay?"

"Okay, Ma," I whisper. "Love you."

"Love you too, baby. Don't go to school, okay?"

Then she cuts off. I hang my head over the rim of the basin and throw up again. Jeremy rubs my back, kissing me tenderly on the cheek and reassuring me.

Being ill sucks, right? But at least I have my boyfriend to help me through it.

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IT'S COMING HOME, IT'S COMING HOME, IT'S COMING- FOOTBALL'S COMING HOME! Heh heh, sorry, it's world cup fever over here. Hope you enjoyed. Peace out, dudes.