Heart's Done Time (Aerosmith Fanfiction)

Chapter eighteen

Steven's POV
I played the entire show.
Seems like that would go without saying--what with the confidence I went on with and the confidence I maintained for most of the concert--but nearer the end I started to lose faith in my own ability, for that faint feeling I'd gotten right before passing out earlier returned with vigor and sent me stumbling a bit.
I finished the show, though. It'd been tough, since the feeling hardly abated, but I managed, and even after we'd said our good-nights and had exited the stage, I remained conscious and upright, if a bit shaky. But that latter bit was hardly anything new.
Sesame greeted me backstage, as she always did, and enveloped me in a rib-crushing hug with words whispered of how she was proud of me, making me tear up a bit when I pulled away to examine her face.
She was paler than usual, and her eyes were wide with fear, but she also looked relieved and, just as she had said, proud. I was overwhelmed for a moment by how gorgeous she was.
"Let me take your temperature," she said then, just after planting a kiss on my lips. "You feel warm."
"You've been saying that for days now, you know. It doesn't seem too likely that I will have cooled down after an hour and forty five minute set," I reminded her, popping in the thermometer all the same.
"I'll feel better for having done it, though," she said, guiding me over the one of the ratty couches and watching that I didn't drop the device in my mouth. I rolled my eyes, but did nothing else to argue.
By the time we had a good reading, three fifths of the band had cold beers in hand, Ray was in the shower (having apparently gotten dibs), and Joe, Tom, and Joey seated themselves and watched with interest as Sesame removed the offending object from my mouth and furrowed her eyebrows. I copied her expression.
"Well?" said Joey, obviously curious. Or maybe he was just worried. It was difficult to tell with these guys.
"Sweetie, you're at over 103," said Sesame, sounding alarmed. "That's borderline hospital."
"But only borderline," I said, disinterested in the subject of my health. "No point heading out now."
That earned me a look of disbelief. "What are you talking about?" she'd raised her voice, and I knew suddenly that I'd said something not good. "We should be taking you to the ER, like, now!"
"Whoa, whoa," said Joe, moving to sit by Sesame. He rubbed her back to calm her. "Hold your horses, nurse. High fever or not, he seems to be doing better," he said. "I mean, look at him, he's upright and talking and lucid." I nodded, as if that helped anything. "But I'm sure he's tired. He can sleep this off at home. And if he can't, you can take him to the hospital in the morning."
Tom joined in, then; "We're also all a little overheated. That's just what happens when you play a long show under hot stage lights."
Joe nodded. "This is probably nothing to worry about. And he's certainly not going to break overnight."
Sesame looked defeated. "He might," she said, but then cracked under the pressure of our stares. "Okay, shit, fine. Let's get you boys showered and home again, and then I'll take Steven to the walk-in clinic tomorrow."
"Good plan," said Joe, patting her on the back and then moving back to the other couch, allowing Sesame room to scoot closer to me and lend her lap as a headrest. I was very grateful for this, dozing quickly with her hand stroking my hair and the bare part of her thighs cold and soft beneath my cheek.
It felt only natural.
---
"You're still in bed?"
I was shaken awake by the sound of these words and the feeling of another presence in the room, all stiff and stressed and pointlessly frustrated; my mother.
It was only 8:00 AM on a Saturday morning, and I hadn't gotten in until past 3:00 last night; and that wasn't even to mention how exhausted I was both from the strain of the illness, and the strain of last night's show. At least, I reminded myself, we'd gotten paid well, and even invited back again for a future show.
The crowd loved us, even though our set was less than stellar--having contained mostly Stones, Dylan, and Yardbirds tunes (along with a few originals)--and had cheered seemingly endlessly even after we'd bid them ado and returned backstage. The pay was great too, and I was left now with the task of figuring out how to spend my newfound fortune.
I snapped back to the present.
"I'm sick," I told my mom by way of an answer, certainly sounding the part with my already-aching throat shot to pieces from a long night of singing. "And I had a late night."
"You're sick?" she asked, sounding almost concerned for once. "How long have you been sick?"
I coughed. "I dunno. Few days I guess."
"Did you still make your date?" she asked, probably worried that I'd canceled the one normal-teenager thing I had going in my life.
"Yeah," I told her, eyes shutting of their own accord for a moment. "Yeah, I made it."
"Are you dating this girl now?"
My eyes shot open. "Mom!" I exclaimed, feeling embarrassed. The absolute last thing I wanted to be discussing with her was my love life.
"I have a right to know," she reminded me, leaving me little time to jump in with a response before she pulled out the "I-was-in-labor-for-ages" card.
"Fine, yes, I'm dating Sesame now," I told her, feeling sick to my stomach for reasons unrelated to the flu. "Can I please go to sleep now?"
"First let me take your temperature," she said, approaching in full mom-mode and making me feel thoroughly uncomfortable. She was rarely like this, after all.
"I'm sixteen, Mom, I can take my own temperature," I reminded her with a sigh. "How exactly do you expect me to get better if you don't leave me to sleep?"
"Fine, fine," she said, holding her hands up in surrender. "I'm going."
And she did go. But not a minute later there was a knock at the front door, and a familiar feminine voice floated down the hall.
"Hi, Mrs. Tallarico. I don't know if you remember me, but I'm Sesame Bello," said the voice, and I felt about ready to die. My mother was talking to my girlfriend.
"Oh, yes, of course, Sesame. I haven't seen you since Steven was in junior high! You've changed your hair color," said my mom, and I could just imagine her look of distaste at the vibrant shade of pink. "I like it." I nearly choked.
"Thank you!" said Sesame, probably as surprised as I was that my mother was behaving so well. I could practically hear the bright smile tugging at her painted lips to find that maybe the Tallarico family wasn't as bad as their youngest member claimed they were. "Anyway, I'm here to see Steven. I know he's sick, so I figured I'd come and try to cheer him up and give him a ride to the clinic if he needs it."
"That's so nice of you, dear. He's in his bedroom right down the hall."
"Thank you," said Sesame, and then her interaction with my mom was blissfully over for the time being. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Moments later, the door to my room opened and in padded my pink-haired girlfriend, clad, surprisingly, in tights rather than socks beneath her skirt and blouse. "You know, your mom--"
"Don't even go there," I interrupted, sitting up in bed and holding up a threatening finger. "She's apparently going for some acting award."
Sesame giggled, and the took a seat at the end of my bed. "So, are you ready to head out?" she asked, eyeing my bed-head and smiling.
I swallowed. "See, here's the thing," I started, scooting closer to her as though that would help get my point across. "I've been thinking, and I'm starting to doubt that going to the clinic is such a good idea."
She rolled her eyes, telling me, "Don't be a baby. They're doctors, it's their job to not hurt you."
"That's not what I'm worried about," I said, chewing my lip thoughtfully and ignoring the feeling of pain when I pulled on a scab. "I just don't think it's a good idea, what with my, uhh, extensive injuries and all."
She motioned for me to go on.
"Okay, well, let's think of it this way," I started again, absently fingering my bruised stomach. "I don't think that social services would respond well to finding out some underfed kid showed up at the clinic with such a spectacular array of cuts and bruises," I told her. "That seems like it would ring some alarm bells."
She sighed.
"Plus," I said. "If they put me in foster care, who knows where I'd end up? I may have to leave the band, my life..." I swallowed hard, feeling nauseous. "I might have to leave you, Sesame. And I don't know if I could do that."
She sighed again, this time much more heavily and defeated. "Okay, no doctors then. We'll let you get past this yourself. But if you get any worse, so help me God, you are going to the emergency room."
I smiled. "Thank you, Pink."
"Yeah, yeah, hot stuff, you make a good case," she said, rolling her eyes. "I love you."
I leaned forward, kissing her deeply and passionately. "I love you too."