Ю ● ＼(^_＼)

Kian’s abs ached, and not in the good way. Like, a kickass workout, or getting laid, and he hadn’t had much energy for more than a lazy wank for the last few weeks.

The sound of vomit hitting the bottom of the toilet brought on another wave of nausea, and he heaved. His throat burned, the stench of his sick stung his nose, and his t-shirt clung to his skin, drenched in sweat.

The door to the tour bus bathroom slid open. Head tilted the bare amount, Kian peered up at Chord framed in the doorway with a hand on his hip and a glass of water in the other. He hung his head in the toilet bowl and groaned.

“You’re lucky Tan mustered the energy to go on a walk with Ayla,” Chord said. He snatched a roll of toilet paper off the sink and handed it to Kian. “Clean yourself up.”

Kian reached for the roll. His hand trembled. “You gonna laugh at me?” His voice was a little raw from stomach acid. 

Kian hadn’t thrown up much. Just a crapload of stomach acid and two pop tarts he’d wolfed down for a quick breakfast before a run along the Sydney waterfront. He’d gotten lost twice, but damn if Maritimers weren’t the friendliest bunch. Even if he looked slightly lost, someone would happily point him in the right direction. Maybe it was a Canadian thing. He did that back home too.

Groaning, Kian slouched down against the small bathroom wall and wiped his face with the TP. He barely fit in the space between the sink and toilet. Tour busses definitely weren’t built for someone his size.

“Oh, yes. Kian’s puking up a lung. Jolly good fun.” Chord rolled his eyes and thrust the glass of water in Kian’s face. “Rinse your mouth out, dipstick. Your blood sugar is low. I can see you shakin’ like a little girl.”

“This coming from the poof who spends two hours doing his makeup.” Kian flinched when Chord almost dumped the water on his head. He fumbled the glass for a second, but Chord disappeared.

That had been a little mean. Chord had been trying to help, and Kian knew that Chord had always been skittish when it came to his more effeminate traits. Probably came from having grown up with a dickhead of an old man. He’d never been more grateful for his mum than the day he met that wanker.

Kian managed to climb to his feet eventually and rinsed out his mouth as suggested. His mouth didn’t taste much better, but at least his puke breath was minty fresh. 

By the time he stumbled into the main room and took a seat at the foldout table, Chord was cutting a BLT sandwich in half. Even from across the bus, Kian could see the yellowing bruises on Chord’s skin. Apparently, he got mugged while back in Vancouver, which was a bit sus. Vancouver wasn’t exactly a rough city compared to a few of the places they’d been.

The table was covered in Kian’s homework, assignments, pens, pencils, and textbooks. His laptop sat open on the corner. The screensaver – pictures of the band, their friends, and mostly Tan – flashing on the screen. Chord had helped him set it when he first bought the computer, and Tan hated it. Well, only the pictures of him. 

They had been on tour for over two months. Which meant Kian was running out of time. If he didn’t finish the workload in three days, he would be shipped back home faster than Tan could fall asleep. The last record was four minutes and something seconds. Still pretty damn quick considering it was in the middle of a bloody park.

The BLT sandwich slammed down on top of Kian’s open history textbook in front of him, sliding a little on the small paper plate.

“Take a break and eat lunch with me,” Chord said. His tone didn’t leave much room for argument, but that didn’t mean Kian wasn’t going to try.

“Don’t have time, mate.” Kian picked up the plate to set aside. “You know-”

Chord sighed and sat down across from Kian with his own lunch – a ham and cheese croissant and a spinach salad. He fiddled with a piece of cheese sticking out from the tip of the croissant. “You’re an ass, you know that?” 

Kian did. God did he ever. He couldn’t get the image of Tan sobbing hopelessly in his lap out of his head, but he had a deadline. He was doing this for them. 

“Look.” Chord rubbed the back of his neck, wincing at the tenderness. “I just need some company right now. You might be a giant asshat right now, but…”

Kian paused. After a few seconds, he set the plate back down. He picked up the sandwich and took a bite. Extra bacon. Chord knew him too well.

“Fine. A quick break,” Kian said. “If you’re going to be so dramatic about it.”

Flicking some sort of nut at Kian, Chord rolled his eyes and picked up a plastic fork. “Just eat, moron.” 

Kian tried to eat, nibbling small bites of the corner of the sandwich. Still, his attention drifted to the mottled skin that peeked out from under the ridiculous scarf looped lightly around Chord’s neck. 

“So….” Kian said. The silence was killing him. “How’s Shauna?”

Chord flinched so hard that he dropped his fork, but he was quick to snatch it back up and stab the spinach on his plate. “We broke up.”

“That sucks, mate,” Kian said with as much sincerity he could muster, which was very little. He’d never liked her. The way she latched onto Chord and dug her claws in on her first tour. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Whatever.” Chord got up, dumped his plate in the garbage, and disappeared into the back of the bus. The divider snapped closed behind him.

For a moment, Kian debating going after Chord, but the dates on the page under his plate were mocking him. He shoved his sandwich aside and buried his head back into the end of the cold war.