Kurt straightened up in his chair and shifted his focus back to whatever Mr. Schuester was talking about, but to no avail—no matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn't concentrate. He was preoccupied by a dull ache in his stomach—barely even severe enough to be considered "pain," it was more of a general discomfort, and he didn't like it.

He fidgeted again, trying to stifle a wince. He found himself having a hard time keeping up with the dance moves and hitting the high notes, and by the time he left and headed for home, he wondered if there was actually something wrong with him.

At home, he went straight to his room and changed out of his favourite red jeans and into pajama bottoms. He sprawled on his bed to work on some homework, but his stomach continued to ache and his eyelids quickly grew heavy.

"Dinner, Kurt!" came Carole's voice, muffled through the door, but still enough to jolt Kurt out of his uncomfortable half-asleep state. He got to his feet, swaying slightly, and headed into the kitchen. The short walk could have been Everest, for all Kurt cared—he felt so crappy he could have slept all through the night and well into tomorrow.

He didn't eat much that night, shrugging it off when his stepmother noticed the way Kurt pushed bites of food around on his plate and asked if he was okay. "Just not too hungry," he murmured, standing up to dump his plate.

Carole stood when Kurt did and rounded the table to place a hand on his forehead. "You don't feel feverish or anything, sweetie," she remarked. "But why don't you go lie down, and Finn can help me with the dishes tonight."

"Thanks," Kurt replied, glancing apologetically at his stepbrother, who had suddenly gotten stuck doing Kurt's chore for the night.

As Kurt crawled into bed once more, he drew his knees up to his chest; the dull stomach pain had intensified and brought with it a dose of nausea. The few bites of dinner that Kurt had managed to eat weren't sitting well with him.

Well, he thought, Mike and Santana have both been out with some sort of bug recently—something's going around, and I got lucky I guess.

It wasn't long before his eyes drooped slowly shut again, before he even had a chance to remember his moisturizing routine.

Sometime early in the morning, Kurt was rudely awoken by a shooting pain through his stomach, as well as the sensation of something rising in his throat. He leaped out of bed, fighting the dizziness that swamped him at the sudden movement, and dashed for the bathroom.

He didn't want to throw up. He couldn't let himself do it. He gripped the counter with white knuckles, fighting the urge with everything in him. He took a deep, shaky breath, and watched with disgust as a beat of sweat rolled down his temple.

He knew—or at least, desperately hoped—that if he'd just puke and get it over with, he'd feel better. But puking was, to Kurt, a fate worse than death. He spat out a mouthful of excess saliva and fought a gag.

Soon, though, he couldn't hold back any longer. He gagged once, twice, eyes watering from the force of it, and on the third time everything happened at once. Kurt lurched forward violently, hitting his head on the faucet as his meager dinner made its reappearance, followed by what felt like everything else he'd eaten since grade school.

When the heaving subsided and Kurt could catch his breath, he straightened up with a wince and looked himself square in the eye. His skin was deathly pale, his eyes bloodshot. Tears rolled down his cheeks from the unpleasantness of vomiting combined with the steady pain that still sat in the pit of his stomach like a heavy, cold stone.

Kurt rinsed the evidence of his sickness out of the sink, hastily brushed his teeth, and crawled pathetically back into bed, wondering how long he'd have before he'd be back in the bathroom again. He rarely got sick, but when he did—he really did.

- to be continued -