Note: Crossposted on A03

PART 1 OF 2

The first thing Atsushi did when he woke up was vomit. The second was sit and stare at what had just happened. The world was still swirling around as his vision blurred with tears - he didn't have any memory of what he had been dreaming about, but fucks knows it messed him up to the point that it physically sickened him. But that couldn't be right, no nightmare did that and if it did then it shouldn't have left him feeling as though his brain was stuck on a boat out in the middle of a particularly vicious storm - because that was exactly how he felt, and it certainly didn't make him feel any better. If anything, it made him feel about a hundred times worse.

The rolling nausea was still ever present, and half made him want to stay where he was out of fear that any movement would make him sick all over again - but at the same time he knew he should move to the bathroom lest he throw up all over his bed again. Ah shit, he had actually done that - he was going to be killed for that one. Punished severely . . . but by who? The scary suspicion that something bad would happen had creeped into Atsushi's being, that suddenly somebody would reach out and grab him, smack him across the face for making a mess. Breath caught in Atsushi's throat and he choked;

"Ah, shi-" he couldn't slow his breathing and the already shaky world view began to waver more. No, he wasn't going to be hurt or punished, he was home. His home, somewhere he was safe. He was free. Away. Untouchable. All that didn't mean jack shit and the weretiger couldn't help his shaking form as memories upon memories came in waves, old fears seeping into him exacerbated by his sick and confused mind.

It stank.

The room stank but Atsushi didn't move. Instead tears began to fall down his cheeks - he had to do something, he had to move, clean up. He had to . . . he gagged forcefully, hand slapping over his mouth to prevent making even more of a mess - it didn't help, and bile seeped out through his fingers, dripping down his wrist and arm onto the puddle below him. The world was closing in around him, small room become smaller. His vision began to wax and wane, edges darkening, and he could feel himself slipping sideways, the smell of vomit strong in his nose.

Fuck. He was going to get into so much trouble - no (no) he wasn't. He needed to move. God, he felt so sick, his body so heavy, he could just lie there . . . and sleep. Yeah, sleep sounded so good - then he could pretend nothing was wrong. In his dreams he hadn't thrown up twice, once on himself and once on his bed. But dream . . . nightmares, no. He needed to move, curling up into himself, he accidentally wiped his vomit stained hand on the t-shirt that had been serving as a pyjama top and Atsushi cringed, he could feel the way the cold vomit soaked through the thin material and it made his stomach roll. Yeah - he needed out of that room; it really did stink.

His legs wouldn't hold him up, he tried. He really did, grabbing a hold of the windowsill and everything to try and haul himself to his feet - but the moment he was up he went back down, slamming back onto the floor with such a force that his brain shook in his head causing him to heave but (thankfully) not throw up again. So instead, he began to crawl towards the bathroom - it was definitely the better place to be. Tile floors were so much easier to clean.

Crawling slowly across the floor Atsushi had to stop at several intervals to suppress a gag (or at one point simply to throw up, fuck, he was making such a mess) but eventually he made it. The tiles were cool against his effort-hot skin - now that he was actually where he wanted to be Atsushi lay taking laboured breaths, god he was thirsty. He had a glass in the bathroom but it was by the sink and that was above him, too far to reach from his position on the floor - he didn't deserve it anyway (no, no that's not right). The world was swirling around as he lay still, his stomach still cramping and rolling at random intervals - fuck he felt so sick, so terrible, so tired and done. Maybe he would lie there until he died of dehydration (wouldn't that be a laugh).

No. He needed to make an effort. Fucking efforts was so . . . no.

Sitting up slowly Atsushi stayed as still as he could, hoping the dizziness would abate (it didn't but he would just have to deal with it). He could now reach the glass placed at the side of the sink and - with great difficulty in grabbing at the taps to turn them on - eventually managed to get himself a drink of water. Holding, Atsushi stared at it intently, not realising how much his body was swaying as he did so. Sighing he drank the water down, yeah, that would make better.

Ha, no.

The moment the cold water hit Atsushi's stomach it sent him choking and coughing. It sat like lead in his body and it was as though he could honestly feel it bubbling beneath the surface, sending waves of uncomfortable waves throughout his being. He just kept making mistakes, why couldn't he do something simple like taking care of himself, why was everything going so fucking wrong? Pushing the empty glass aside, Atsushi curled up at the base of the toilet, clutching his swirling stomach tightly as tears escaped his closed eyes. He couldn't remember a time when he had felt sicker and dizzier (he could, he could, so long ago, unimportant now) and he wished, with the faintest of hope that somebody - anybody - would come and look after him, tell him sweet nothings that would make him feel better . . . kind of like a parent of some kind, ha!

He couldn't remember how long he had been lying on his bathroom floor but suddenly that sick, awful, tight, no feeling returned in full force and he was rapidly (well, not rapidly, he was way too dizzy to do anything rapidly) forcing himself over the toilet to once again throw up for the third (fourth? fifth? who knows) time that day. The water, which had been evilly bubbling away beneath the surface before, arose with a ferocity so volatile, sour and bitter that the force caught Atsushi off guard, the yellowish, almost acidic looking, puke dripped half into the toilet and half onto the floor - fuck, he'd made a mess all over again.

"No~" Atsushi groaned involuntarily, hands gripping onto the sides of the toilet bowl, the only thing holding him up at that moment. Bleary eyes stared down at the puddle next to his knees when there was suddenly red amongst the yellow. Watching closely, the soft drip could be heard before Atsushi realised that the redness was coming from him.

Blood. His blood, dripping down his chin. Oh, his nose was bleeding - when had that happened.

Sitting back against the bath, Atsushi swiped a shaky hand under his nose. His blood was warm on his hand as he stared at the crimson gore that stood out shockingly against the paleness of his skin - that in turn became the straw that broke the camel's back. His vision blurred and the tears which had been on and off for a while started up full force - Atsushi was in no mind to tell whether or not the tears were over how sick he felt, the mess he found himself in, sheer exhaustion or all three, regardless he began to cry hard. His nose was still bleeding badly, dripping down his face onto his shirt as the sick teen buried his face in his hands rocking back and forth ever so slightly.

He cried until he threw up again, this time without the strength to even move, he just let himself throw up all over himself and the floor, a mix of blood and vomit now decorated the formally pristine tiles of his bathroom floor. He was tired, dizzy and incredibly nauseous but lacked the strength to move, clean anything up or even hold his own head up.

Instead, he lay on the bathroom floor - feeling more alone than he had in a very long time

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