5SOS Sickfics

Not So Silent Night-☃️

This is for AmmoHemmo , go check her out! (V cool I promise)
I changed the prompt very slightly because I'm a lazy ass bitch.
Sorry for the cheesy ending and the late update...

xx

Ashton's POV:

Tuck, smooth, fold, tuck, smooth, fold, tape; turn, tuck, smooth, fold, tuck, smooth, fold, tape. Write, sign, thread, smooth, tape, done.

Above me, a bedroom door opens and soft, yet hurried footsteps patter across the landing. The obnoxiously loud bathroom light pings on and the extractor fan whirrs softly; the frosted glass door is shut and the alloy lock turned. I think nothing of it, and continue wrapping. Next, a book for an old high school friend.

The fire is slowly dying beside me, but it has already generated enough heat that I'm glad I left Mikey's wrapped chocolates in the fridge rather than dunking them into the woollen stocking above the hearth. Darkness surrounds me with an unmistakeable glow like a scene from The Holiday or pretty much anything else with a fireplace- a glow so lovingly associated with Christmas Eve.

I hear coughing from the bathroom as I tuck, smooth and fold starred paper around a hardback copy of a new book that still smells of the printing press. As I tape the last piece in place, I think: I better go see who that is, just in case. They had been in there an awful long time.

So, I set down the book, paper and scissors and venture up the stairs. The yellow hue of bathroom light scattered itself across the landing floor through the clouded door and soft sobs crept under the cracks. I checked the hallway to my left, the four doors were decorated each with stickers, album art, and family photos. One, though, was thrown wide open. That door was the one with a picture of a yellow umbrella from How I Met Your Mother, a piece of paper reminding the owner to brush their teeth signed 'Mama Liz', sheet music and Blink album covers.

Luke.

I brought my fist to the frosted glass and knocked twice.

"I have nothing left; just come in," his tired voice groaned. I pushed the handle and entered the tiny tiled room. Slumped over the toilet was a shaking, dripping Luke, whose hair clung to his sweating skin. "I got sick," he sniffed, bowing his head further in shame.

"Hey, hey," I cooed, sweeping down across the room and scooping him into my chest. "It's okay. Have you taken anything?"

His shoulders and head still shook as tears slipped, almost unnoticed, from duct to chin. Sand hair in matted clumps adorned his head, pushed around so much in his sleep that they no longer resembled the stiff, sideways shape they usually took, but more a frazzled newborn hedgehog saying "don't look at me". He shook his head, refusing to meet my eye, staring relentlessly on, into the U-bend.

"I'll get you something. Do you want me to wake Cal to help you take the pills?" Luke always had either his mum or Cal help him take his pills, for moral support. Something about those people in particular made the whole ordeal more bearable to him. I stood and, with one final pay on the shoulder, began rummaging through the medicine cupboard, searching for stomach relaxers.

I heard Luke vomit and I closed my eyes, freezing.

"D-don't get Cal. I don't want him to know," he sniffed a big, wet sniff and, though I couldn't see him, I knew he was wiping his nose on the long sleeve of his sleep hoodie and biting into the other side to stop himself from crying.

"Why, Bub?" I grabbed a bottle with fluorescent yellow contents which, according to the label, would do the job. "These are pretty big pills, YOU sure?" I said, looking down into the bottle. I looked up, and Luke was nodding; sure enough, he was biting a worn patch of the hoodie sleeve put there by far to many nights far to similar to this one. "Okay, here goes."

Needless to say, the pills were a night mare, but Luke would not relent.

-

Christmas morning came, and Luke and I had devised a plan. He didn't want the other boys worrying about him on Christmas, so our cover story was homesickness. When we were opening presents, I held Luke close, and Michael 'awe'd us a couple of times; we told him Luke was just tired- missing his own bed- but I'm not sure he bought it.

Dinner was, to say the least, eventful. Calum heartily laughed and Michael told jokes; at first it was all okay, perfect, even. I kept trying to sneakily check on Luke, and in doing so I found him fidgeting and breathing shallowly like he does when he feels sick, a sign I had noticed the most in the last few hours as slowly becoming regular behaviour. Luke reached for his glass, gulping down the remaining water hurriedly and then holding out his arm for more.

"Cal, fill me up," he demands, swallowing deeply and furrowing his brow. Surprised, Calum obliges and takes the jug beginning to pour into Luke's glass. Before he could finish, Luke's grip faltered and the glass slipped, making the stuffing soggy and clogging up the turkey meat. He jerks backwards, up and coughs before standing and leaning the room.

Luke's steps are quick, organised and purposeful- the very epitome of a man on a mission. A mission which, rather unfortunately, failed. As I sprung up and loyally followed Luke to the bathroom, I noticed his form growing gradually more hunched. The scraping chairs and footsteps of the other two boys followed me worriedly until the three of us stood, observing, as Luke grabbed the door frame of the bathroom, bent over and vomited.

We stood in silence for a moment.

He had been so close.

But not close enough.

I stepped foreword, plunging the household back into the heat and mystery of the moment. Mops were found, the plastic wrapper on the disinfectant spray peeled off, and a certain blonde fringe held back over the toilet.

I guess one could say that it wasn't perfect (mind you, it wasn't). It wasn't perfect, but it sure as hell was Christmas.