Boys Don't Cry

Average Childhood Illness Scare Part 1

[Read the title again, one more time. This is a sickfic. I am trash. The rest of this entire "book" isn't as disgusting as this. On a scale of sickfic, I'd say this is a 5 of 10 on general being gross. If you can deal with auditory description of certain bodily functions (not onomatopoeia, brief description), this may not be but so offensive. Not a lot of visual adjectives describing the action or the mess. I said what I needed to, not much more. Read or skip accordingly.

I was dared to do this by a ten year old girl who had watched the series (idk why her parents let her). I honored her request on a whim. Here you go, Tara. I'm splitting the chapters up in order for cumulative reads to increase.]

It was a wet autumn night at Wammy's House, and nothing had happened yet to the delicate, quiet sheet of night. I say yet, because in an institution chock full of young men and boys, perfect quiet is seldom had.

Quillish Wammy awoke with a quiet knock at the door. While he could almost always sleep through storms and chaos happening outside of his bedroom, his ear could not ignore a simple, quiet knock. The grand majority of the time, the knock came from a child.

"Yes, yes, come in.", he said, while turning on his bedside lamp and finding his glasses.

The door eased open and he expected to find a randomly selected, perhaps wet, perhaps crying, little boy. "It seems like a bed wetting night", thought Quillish.

Randomly selected, yes, but it was L this time. On first glance, he looked to be just fine.

"Oh, it's you. What's wrong?"

"My head hurts."

He was speaking quietly and standing in the doorway. L was ten years old at the time, and was tall and skinny for his age. Quillish immediately had the notion that something wasn't right, L was a generally healthy boy, and almost always slept through the night (or at the very least, stayed in bed).

"Come here and let me have a look at you.", he said, while patting the spot beside him in bed.

L walked over to the bed, and laid down where Quillish had indicated. That in itself was odd, L didn't usually flop over like that. Quillish laid a hand on L's face, and it was hot and sticky to the touch. Upon moving out of the light, he noticed L's already pale complexion had become pallid with a feverish blush across his cheeks.

"You...do not look well. Wait here."

"The pinkness couldn't be sunburn, the sun was hardly out all day.", thought Quillish as a prompt knock at the bedroom door called him out of the adjoining bathroom.

"Sir? Do you need me to-"

He stopped when he saw the source of the stirring. It was common for people to double take when they saw L.

Who was this? It was Thomas David, a "big brother". All that meant was a room to himself, and an obligation to care for their little brothers in situations when they would need a parent. None of the big brothers had done anything regarding L, simply because the few times he's needed help, he's seldom to never asked for it. As one of the cooks say, "If you had shot that boy in the stomach, he'd sigh and decide to read a novel.", which was inaccurate, given L didn't take to literature. That was yet another alarming thing about this particular evening.

Nevertheless, Thomas outstretched his hand and told L to follow him. L was wary, and didn't get up.

"He's fine with me, Thomas."

"Are you sure? I could take him to Nursey's, if you want."

"I've decided to bother her first thing in the morning, but thank you. Could you open your mouth? I am going to take your temperature."

The last part was directed towards L, who was halfway following the conversation.

"Okay, sir. Ring for me if you change your mind, Ken'dy is busy with Percy. Wet the bed again."

"Yes, yes... Alert Nursey of that in the morning, Percy is having a growing problem in that area."

"Yes sir. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Quillish took out the thermometer, and read it aloud.

"Nearly a perfect 101."

He sat beside L and put an arm around him, hugging him to his hip. Then, he felt a wave of shivers pass through L, and focused his attention on exactly what L was doing.

He had that faraway look children get when they're tired, or...

Knowing to approach the situation predictably and gently, he slowly scooped the lanky child up princess-style to carry into the bathroom.

He really didn't have to carry him the way, L indicated he wanted to be put down with an odd urgency. As soon as he touched the ground, he made a beeline to the toilet.

He was struggling against it audibly, and so Quillish knelt beside him to offer advice.

After placing a hand on his back, he said two simple words.

"Breathe in."

And what was a boy to do? He followed the advice, shakily began to take a deep breath in, only to have his insides rush upwards and whatever fluids pour out halfway through.

Quillish cringed the entire time, he always did, no matter how fond he was of a boy.

They kept kicking upwards, and blood thundered through his ears. Before he could differentiate, gagging had turned to sobbing.

He had a wet washrag ready, and was right on the ball when L decided he was finished. The washrag is always necessary, you wouldn't think vomiting in the correct place would be so messy, but it always is.

After he was wiped up, he buried his face in Quillish's chest.

Quillish flushed the mess, and then pulled L into his lap. He may have been a ten year old as of last month, but he lacked the social development, and needed breaks. "But then again," Quillish thought, "L isn't the only 'big kid' I've held, and his predecessors all had a normal development."

When L had calmed down to sniffling and sneezing, Quillish picked him up in a backwards piggy back carry, and tucked him into his half of the bed while he went to wet a clean washcloth and bring a glass of water.

"How do you feel now?"

"Worse."

He brushed L's hair out of the way, it was sticking to him, and put the washcloth across his forehead.

"Perhaps you'll feel better in the morning."

Or perhaps not. L had gotten up a second time that night for the same reason, and when they both finally slept, it was nearly four in the morning.

When Quillish woke up in the morning, L was still asleep, so he left to bring breakfast. Roger had followed him into the kitchen and began to inquire.

"So, what was going on last night?"

"Percy Thomason wet the bed, Kendrick cared after him."

"Percy doesn't have an orphan cry."

An orphan cry is Wammy house slang for loud, sustained cries, rather than hysterical sobbing, bleating etc.

"L isn't feeling well."

"Oh, had a rough night did he?"

"Very... Oh! Shame we have that conference today, I suppose I'll have to leave L with Thomas."

He didn't admit it, but he didn't want to leave L when he was sick, or at all. The conference would mean that he would leave in the noon and return late at night