Not How Your Stories End

Chapter 4

It had been two hours since they had sent Ezra to bed and Zeb decided it was high time to join him. He had been doing his best to avoid the kid all day (at Hera's request), but refused to give up his room for the night just cause the brat got sick. Before he could enter the cabin, though, Hera caught him and bestowed upon him the duty to take the kid's temperature and try to get him to eat. It was an annoying prospect, but ultimately unavoidable, so he trudged on towards his bunk, tray of food in one hand and medkit in another.

Before Zeb could even usher out a greeting, he was assaulted with the sound of his young bunkmate hacking out his lungs into his sheets. It was a miserable sight, driving Zeb to feel almost felt guilty for his previous annoyance. He walked over and gave the teen a few awkward pats on the shoulder, trying to offer a little bit of comfort. Despite an initial flinch, Ezra surprisingly didn't fight the touch and just continued to focus on his breathing.

As he began to catch his breath, Zeb pushed a glass of water towards him, which he promptly refused.

"Kid, come on. 'Yer sick, ya gotta have 'yer fluids and such if you want to get better," he grumbled, legitimate concern lacing his voice.

But Ezra just continued to gasp and resist. "Feel sick..." he sputtered, "Feel like... gonna... throw up...." he trailed, grasping at his sheets desperately.

Zeb began to panic, having no idea what to do in this sort of situation. He quickly retrieved a small waste bin that lay upside down on the other side of the room and thrust it into the teen's arms.

"Here, if ya have to hurl, do it in that!" he panted, still scrambling for what to do. Ezra began to retch into the bucket, bringing up very little. Zeb winced at the noise, his ears flattening against his head as he patiently waited for the fit to subside before offering up the water again. This time, Ezra accepted, but only managed a few sips before collapsing back down onto his mattress in an exhausted heap.

"Hold up, kid. Before ya' go back ta sleep, Hera wanted me to check 'yer fever again an' get ya to eat a bit. I know 'yer prolly not in the mood fer eatin', but ya' know Hera'll have my hide if I don't get ya to take at least a few bites."

The teen whimpered affirmatively in response and allowed his hulking roommate to press the cold sensor of the thermometer against his burning forehead. Zeb waited for the tool to present its readings and then stepped back to observe the results.

"Uhhh, kid? Do you know how high yer' fever was before?" he asked, straining to read the tiny numbers in the dim confines of their shared cabin.

Ezra coughed, squinting at his roommate with confusion. "103 something? I think?"

Zeb hummed in acknowledgement. "Yeah, it's about the same now. Guess you just gotta keep that cold pack goin' like Hera said. Think you can sit up and have a few bites a' this stew? Hera told me it was some kind a vegetable stew 'er somethin'. I don't know, but it's supposed to be easy on yer' stomach," he explained as sympathetically as he could.

Ezra shrugged weakly and hoisted himself up against the wall of his bunk, feebly reaching forward to receive his meal. The teen ate slowly, only managing a few bites before scrunching up his face and returning the dish to his roommate then flopping back down on his bed pathetically.

If Zeb wasn't worried before, he definitely was now. The kid could usually eat almost as much as himself on an average day, and even when he wasn't feeling one-hundred percent, he would at least choke down whatever Hera gave him. A habit, he mused, he probably picked up from all the years of near-starvation he faced on the streets. Zeb knew how it was - when you got food, you ate as much of it as you could before it disappeared. Long story short, if the kid wasn't eating, then things must be worse than they seemed.