Everything is swimming around you and your entire face is throbbing. You're cold and desperately need the feeling of blankets on you, but at the same time, the still air feels good on your sweating skin.

Whimpers are rolling from your throat as your body is attacked by twitches and spasms over and over again. You can't tell which way is up or which way is down. You can't even tell if you're still laying on that shitty mattress you call home.

You curl up more on yourself pulling your knees to your chest. Wrong move. Your neck snaps back as your throat wretches, releasing all the precious life giving food scraps you've stomached out onto your mattress and the floor.

If there was ever a moment you wish you could die, it's now. There's nothing worse than being sick and repeatedly throwing up, and having to lay in your own puke because you're too weak to move.

The door to your room opens and you open your eyes trying to detect who has stumbled upon you in such a pitiful state. You pray to God it's Dave. You fucking pray it's Dave. He's the only one right now you want and need.

He takes care of you and now that you're sick, you definitely need him to care for you. You don't even care if he tries to ironically baby you like he does now and again to make you all angry. Apparently he thinks it's cute, but you really don't care.

"Tsk, tsk."

Your heart is nearly stopping. You feel your neck pushed back as you try and puke again, but there's nothing left but spit to dribble from your mouth. Footsteps slowly move closer a few feet, and you can already hear those damn leather boots squeak as he squats down.

"Looks like Egbert's sick." His voice says right next to your ear.

"D-Dave.." you manage, trying to move your hand. Maybe he came in too? Maybe he'll push through from the door all concerned and make everything better, but there is no Dave. There is no saviour for you.

"Try again."

You don't need to try again. You know very well who is taunting you right now. You try and force down another dry heave, but you can't fight it. He chuckles a little bit.

"Help..me.." you whimper.

"Alright, pipsqueak." One hand moved under your head, the other under your knees. You're lifted up off the filthy mattress and you realize just how limp you really are. You're not even jello. More like pudding. No, not even pudding. You're a damn cup of water. A groan rolls out of your throat as he turns and walks out of the room with you.

What surprises you is not that he's helping, but the fact that when you're put down, it's soft. It's soft and comfortable. Your heavy eyelids close giving up on you. Damn them. You think. Damn your eyes. You need them and the traitors are backing out on you.

A coat is laid down on you and with what little energy you have, you put it on and curl into it. It's warm. Covers are pulled up around you.

This must be heaven or a fever dream. It has to be. This isn't really happening. It's a lie. You're still lying in your vomit on your mattress in your cold dark room.

You feel around on the bed and your hands meet a pillow. Well hello mister pillow. You are now the cuddle buddy. You cuddle that sucker close to you, latching on like it's life itself.

The front door to the apartment opens and closes and you hear that sweet familiar voice.

"John! I'm home! John? Bro?"

"In here."

You can't see anything now. Your eyes are too tired. You've given up trying.

"What..What is he doing in here?"

"He's sick. I think it's the flu."

"The flu!? Wait..what's in his hair?"

Gently, fingers move across your dirty black hair.

"EW! Ew, ew, okay ew."

A chuckle. At least, you think it's a chuckle. You're still really unsure if any of this is happening or if you're actually in the clear or if this is going to end up to be some huge sick kink. You don't think you can take that again. Not right now.

It'd be torture and inhumane, but what is inhumane in this place after all? You've been a subject to burns, choke holds, attempted drownings, beatings, and lets not forget good ol' rape. Yeah, you've seen your share of things, but at this point nothing really fazes you. There's no right or wrong. Only this.

Gentle lips press against your cheek and you try and move to the source with a cute whine. Your arms leave the pillow and grope the air searching. You find him. Your hands find the sides of his face. Your precious Dave.

"It's okay, John." Dave whispered hugging you very gently. "We'll take good care of you and get you back to normal in no time. Then we'll have fun like always, right?"

You open your eyes again and finally they come into focus for a moment. Dave's gentle smiling face and Dirk's cold, yet somehow sympathetic face.

Your name is John Egbert.

And you are the sick pet.