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sherydenTitle: Sick with a Side Order of Guilt
Author:sheryden
Rating: PG
Word Count: 647
Fandom: Kane RPS
Pairings: Chris/Steve
Warnings None
Disclaimer: I do not own these people, and the story within is just the fruit of my vivid imagination.
Summary: When Chris gets sick and has to leave stage, he starts to worry that he's let down Steve and the fans.
Note: Written forangst_bingo for the Wild Card prompt “unable to perform.” I decided to take the prompt literally. While is inspired by the fact that Chris did, in fact, have to leave stage due to an illness, this story is fiction, takes place at a fictional show, and is not meant to be taken as fact or rumor. Mm'kay?
As soon as he shut the hotel door behind him, Chris felt a wave of nausea smack into him like a sucker punch to the gut. He slumped back against the door and let his body slide unceremoniously down the cool surface until he was sitting, knees up, on the ground. He closed his eyes and bit his lip against the swirl of bile that was threatening to send him heaving into a trash basket.
He was supposed to be playing a gig that very moment, but after Chris had had to rush off stage to retch into a toilet, Eric had put him into a car and sent him back to the hotel to sleep it off. Chris could hardly wrap his mind around the fact that he'd had to leave during a show. It was humiliating. Internally cussing out his own body for getting sick at the worst damn times, he gingerly stood up and staggered toward the bed, tugging off his clothes as he went.
He half-sat and half-fell onto the bed, and the sudden movement sent his stomach into fits again. Grabbing the nightstand to steady himself, he gently lowered his body into a reclining position, and as the support of the mattress against his back finally caused the nausea to ebb a little, he let his eyes flutter shut. Lying flat on his back was so much better than being upright. Yeah, he was just going to lie there in bed and not move for the foreseeable future.
After a few minutes of silently trying to sweet-talk his body into letting him sleep, tendrils of guilt started to poke at the back of his mind. He knew he’d done the best he could onstage, but still, he'd managed to let all of those people in the audience down. He hadn’t finished playing a full set, and what songs he had played… well, he couldn’t imagine he had sounded all that great. And before Eric had stuffed him into the car, he had hinted that if Chris didn't show any improvement before the next show, they might be forced to cancel.
Steve was probably pissed at him. He was always griping that Chris didn’t take good enough care of himself. And the fans, well, they were probably already tweeting about his hasty exit from the stage. He wouldn’t blame them one bit if they were bitching him out in 140 characters or less.
Seized with the sudden urge to check his @ messages and see what the fans were saying, Chris lifted himself up onto his elbows and gazed across the hotel room, where his laptop and phone were sitting on the dresser. Gritting his teeth, he stood unsteadily to his feet. Immediately, the room spun into a kaleidoscope, and his stomach lurched forward. Twitter forgotten, he grabbed the wastepaper basket and heaved into it, thankful that no one was around to see his dignity crumble into dust.
Resigned to spending the next few hours in bed instead of on stage, Chris climbed under the covers and drifted to sleep.
When he woke up the next morning, he blinked hard and tried to get his eyes to focus on his surroundings. He let his gaze drift over to the nightstand, where he found a box of tissues, a bottle of water, some mints, and a note that read:
I slept in my room tonight, because I didn’t want to wake you. Eric got you a doctor’s appointment for this afternoon—no arguments. Also… I kidnapped your laptop and phone so you can’t pore over your @ messages looking for reasons to feel guilty. I know you too well. :)
- Love, Steve.
Chris glanced up at the dresser. Sure enough, the computer that had been there the night before was nowhere to be found. Laying a laid a hand on his still-tender stomach, Chris smiled slightly, and muttered, “Asshole.”
He still felt like crap, though, dammit.
Author:
sherydenRating: PG
Word Count: 647
Fandom: Kane RPS
Pairings: Chris/Steve
Warnings None
Disclaimer: I do not own these people, and the story within is just the fruit of my vivid imagination.
Summary: When Chris gets sick and has to leave stage, he starts to worry that he's let down Steve and the fans.
Note: Written for
angst_bingo for the Wild Card prompt “unable to perform.” I decided to take the prompt literally. While is inspired by the fact that Chris did, in fact, have to leave stage due to an illness, this story is fiction, takes place at a fictional show, and is not meant to be taken as fact or rumor. Mm'kay? As soon as he shut the hotel door behind him, Chris felt a wave of nausea smack into him like a sucker punch to the gut. He slumped back against the door and let his body slide unceremoniously down the cool surface until he was sitting, knees up, on the ground. He closed his eyes and bit his lip against the swirl of bile that was threatening to send him heaving into a trash basket.
He was supposed to be playing a gig that very moment, but after Chris had had to rush off stage to retch into a toilet, Eric had put him into a car and sent him back to the hotel to sleep it off. Chris could hardly wrap his mind around the fact that he'd had to leave during a show. It was humiliating. Internally cussing out his own body for getting sick at the worst damn times, he gingerly stood up and staggered toward the bed, tugging off his clothes as he went.
He half-sat and half-fell onto the bed, and the sudden movement sent his stomach into fits again. Grabbing the nightstand to steady himself, he gently lowered his body into a reclining position, and as the support of the mattress against his back finally caused the nausea to ebb a little, he let his eyes flutter shut. Lying flat on his back was so much better than being upright. Yeah, he was just going to lie there in bed and not move for the foreseeable future.
After a few minutes of silently trying to sweet-talk his body into letting him sleep, tendrils of guilt started to poke at the back of his mind. He knew he’d done the best he could onstage, but still, he'd managed to let all of those people in the audience down. He hadn’t finished playing a full set, and what songs he had played… well, he couldn’t imagine he had sounded all that great. And before Eric had stuffed him into the car, he had hinted that if Chris didn't show any improvement before the next show, they might be forced to cancel.
Steve was probably pissed at him. He was always griping that Chris didn’t take good enough care of himself. And the fans, well, they were probably already tweeting about his hasty exit from the stage. He wouldn’t blame them one bit if they were bitching him out in 140 characters or less.
Seized with the sudden urge to check his @ messages and see what the fans were saying, Chris lifted himself up onto his elbows and gazed across the hotel room, where his laptop and phone were sitting on the dresser. Gritting his teeth, he stood unsteadily to his feet. Immediately, the room spun into a kaleidoscope, and his stomach lurched forward. Twitter forgotten, he grabbed the wastepaper basket and heaved into it, thankful that no one was around to see his dignity crumble into dust.
Resigned to spending the next few hours in bed instead of on stage, Chris climbed under the covers and drifted to sleep.
When he woke up the next morning, he blinked hard and tried to get his eyes to focus on his surroundings. He let his gaze drift over to the nightstand, where he found a box of tissues, a bottle of water, some mints, and a note that read:
- Love, Steve.
Chris glanced up at the dresser. Sure enough, the computer that had been there the night before was nowhere to be found. Laying a laid a hand on his still-tender stomach, Chris smiled slightly, and muttered, “Asshole.”
He still felt like crap, though, dammit.
