“Are nothing compared to you. I’ll drive –”
Thomas shook his head. “But –”
“He needs you right now.”
Scott closed his eyes again. He heard the crunch of keys leaving Thomas’s hand and being caught by Tim.
“Come on,” Thomas murmured, picking up Scott’s arm and wrapping it round his shoulders. He heaved Scott to his feet. Scott’s knees buckled, but Thomas kept him up.
“Take this,” Tim said, and Scott found himself clutching what felt like a bucket to his chest. “It’s a flowerpot. Don’t worry, I didn’t pick one with holes in.”
Scott was about to ask why he needed a flowerpot, but then his insides contracted, and he gasped. The next few minutes were a blur of getting into the car, the click of seat belts, the banging of doors and the roar of the engine, and the whole time Scott tried his hardest not to be sick.
“Just give into it,” Thomas whispered.
Scott had glued himself to Thomas’s side. They must’ve been in the back, but Scott didn’t know how he’d got there. His worldnarrowed down to three things, the flowerpot, his desire not to be sick and Thomas’s soothing voice.
“You’ll feel better if you do.”
And part of Scott knew it too. He’d find relief if he gave in to what his body was trying to make him do, but the other part of him didn’t want to throw up in the back of Thomas’s car.
“Do you remember in prison when you were really sick when we were in lockdown? You were hovering over the toilet for hours. You were pale, sweaty and shaking.”
“You were banging on the door because you were scared you were going to get it,” Scott murmured into the flowerpot. “You wanted me sent to the hospital wing.”
Thomas snorted. “That’s what I told you afterwards, weeks after…but I was worried. Really worried. And the guards were ignoring me, and I didn’t know what to do.”
He put his hand on the back of Scott’s neck, rubbing the skin with his thumb. “I put you in my bed, wetted a towel and started pressing it to your skin.”
“I remember,” Scott whispered. “It felt nice.”
“You looked utterly bewildered that I was helping you, like you couldn’t believe that I’d look after you, and it hurt, you thinking that I didn’t care, being surprised that I wanted to help.”
“No one’s ever looked after me. No one.”
“I have,” Thomas said firmly. “I am and I will. Stop fighting it, Scott, and vomit into this flowerpot because you will feel better afterwards. I don’t care about sick, I care about you, and you’re making yourself feel worse.”
“But –”
“Just do it.”
Scott didn’t fight the next wave of cramps, he opened his mouth and vomited what little leftover lunch was in his stomach.It burned his throat, and the foul taste made him grimace, but he slumped afterwards, able to breathe properly again.
Tim sniffled from the driver’s seat. “That was so romantic. I mean, it was gross, but there’s not much in life that says love like encouraging someone to be sick so they’ll feel better.”
“I should’ve kept that gag in your mouth,” Thomas murmured, rubbing Scott’s neck. “Can you slow down so I can empty it?”
“No way, I know what Carly and Jay feed you, that’ll be grade A fertiliser. Put it in the back, I’ll get it later.”
“Wait,” Scott blurted, clutching the flowerpot. “I need it.”
He vomited again.
“Check for blood,” Tim said.
Thomas cupped Scott’s forehead and leaned him back to look. Scott scrunched up his face, pressing into Thomas’s cool palm. “Don’t look –”
“No blood… There is a rather pissed-off-looking frog, though…”
