Chapter Text
Johnny Lawrence comes to sometime on Saturday morning with a sour stomach and a slamming headache. Fumbles around for a minute, trying to gather his limbs and figure out where he is. The carpeting underneath him feels cheap, but seems relatively clean. His elbow hits a couch on one side when he flops over onto his back; his knee collides with a coffee table on the other side, and he barks out, “Fuck!” Gives up and just lies still on the floor.
After a few seconds, the sound of shuffling feet, and the creak of a door opening and shutting, reach him. Then a foot nudges his ankle. A familiar voice, thick with sleep, says, “Hey. You still alive?”
Danny LaRusso stands over him, bleary-eyed and barely dressed, sporting the worst case of bedhead Johnny’s ever seen. Johnny reaches over to the couch and levers himself into a sitting position. So, they did make it home. Alone, it looks like, shame to say. But still.
“Did you sleep on the floor?” Danny asks, and there’s a hint, a tiny glint, of laughter in his voice.
Johnny scowls. Leans his head against the couch cushions. “Spent most of the night in the bathroom, I think,” he admits. “Musta got lost on the way back out.”
Danny snorts, but doesn’t actually laugh. “I told you last night,” he says, “you’re on the wrong side of 25 to be drinkin’ that hard.”
Johnny swivels, fixes him with a baleful glare. “I’m barely past 25, ya smug prick,” he protests. “And it’s not like you got much room to talk.”
Danny rubs his temples, groans, “True.” Grins down at Johnny. “It was kinda fun, though.”
Johnny leans his head against the couch again. Listens to his pulse thundering in his head. Feels his stomach start to wake up with thoughts of misbehaving. Comments, “Mmh. Yeah,” without much conviction.
A pause follows. Then Danny says, with a bit more compassion, “I’m gonna be honest, pal…you look like you feel like shit.”
“That’s about the size of it,” Johnny agrees.
Danny says, “Hang tight.” The fridge door opens and shuts, and then Danny’s back, pressing a chilled bottle of Gatorade into Johnny’s hand.
“Oh, thank fuck,” Johnny breathes. Twists the cap off, starts gulping down the cold liquid. The taste is a little off, but it does chase away some of the sludgy feeling in his mouth and the parched tightness in his throat. When it hits his stomach, though, the low temperature rocks something in his system, tenses his gut in an unpleasant way that makes him think he might be sick again. He grimaces. Sets the bottle down. Breathes for a few minutes. Closes his eyes.
“You okay?” Danny asks.
“Yeah,” Johnny says. “I mean, no, not really, but…I think, just…I dunno. Might need to drink somethin’ hot. You got any more of that tea or whatever?”
“Yeah, sure, I got tons of tea,” Danny says, a little incredulously. And Johnny doesn't blame him for being baffled; they've rolled their eyes at each other's beverage preferences for so long it's become something of a running joke. But these are desperate times.
“You mind makin’ me some?” Johnny requests, getting carefully to his feet. “I’m gonna take a shower.”
Danny shrugs. “Yeah. Sure.”
********
The hot water and steam don't have their usual restorative effect. Johnny slumps forward in the stream with his hands braced on the wall, waiting for some amount of relief. But the headache paradoxically increases, and when he gives up and towels off, he can't shake the strange, clammy feeling that seems to have settled over him. He wanders to his room, slips on boxers and a tee shirt, digs out some flannel pajama pants, snags a blanket from the bed and drapes it over his shoulders. Makes his way to the kitchen and slouches into a seat at the table.
Danny sets a steaming mug in front of him. He stares haggardly at it before raising it for an experimental sip. The scent hits first, and he perks up slightly. Mint. No sugar, but that actually suits his palate better, right now. It goes down smooth, and while it doesn't exactly settle his stomach, it doesn't cause any trouble, either. But the tenuous balance is short-lived.
“You want some breakfast to go with that tea?” Danny asks. “I could make some toast, or scramble some eggs or something.”
Johnny suppresses a gag, drops his head into his hands with a groan. “I already spent the whole night puking,” he says, wiping a light sheen of sweat from his forehead. “I’m gonna steer clear for now.”
Danny squints at him. Leans against the counter. Finally asks, “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Johnny sits up a little straighter. Prepares to get to his feet. “Hungover as fuck,” he declares. “Nothin’ I haven’t been through before.”
He can almost feel Danny’s gaze pressing heavily on him as he rises and pulls the blanket tighter around himself, then begins a slow trudge back to his bedroom.
"I'm gonna sleep it off," Johnny grumbles.
"Okay," Danny responds, a tinge of worry coloring his voice.
********
Johnny curls up in bed, bundled in the blanket, and closes his eyes, tries to breathe deeply and relax enough to fall away into the haggard blackout he expects with a hangover this severe.
But instead, he slips and slides past sleep, swinging into a hazy wakefulness with every shift and turn. He can't get comfortable. The room is spinning almost as bad as the night before, and there's a weird, itchy feeling starting to tickle in his chest that keeps him squirming around.
He rubs his eyes, growls with frustration. Exchanges the blanket for a heavy sleeping bag and wanders to the couch. Hunkers down to stew in his discomfort and disgruntlement.
He slips a hand out of his cocoon to accept another mug of tea from Danny. After he gets a few sips down, Danny eyeballs him a little more pointedly and asks, "Are you sure this is just a hangover?"
Johnny sighs wearily. "Look. My head is killin' me. I'm this close to puking again. I can't sleep 'cause the room won't stop spinning. I feel like shit. We're stayin' the fuck home next weekend." He settles a little deeper into the couch. Looks up at Danny with tired, aching eyes. "Thanks for the tea." Rubs a hand over his face, which feels a little damp again. "Think it might be the only thing keepin' me together right now."
"Yeah," Danny says, brows drawing together. "I'll keep it comin'."
Johnny slowly finishes his mug of tea, watches as the apartment begins to fade into a strange fog. The headache hangs on stubbornly, and the dizziness increases, making every movement feel like a carnival ride, and the only thing that keeps his stomach under control is the constant supply of hot mint tea. The itching in his chest begins to burn a little. He starts to think he might be floating away from the world a bit, and pulls the sleeping bag a little tighter around himself, concentrates on its weight as a way to stay anchored, wonders why it's not keeping him warmer.
Danny appears in the periphery, sits next to him on the couch. Says, in a perfectly reasonable tone, "Johnny. C'mon. You haven't had anything but a fifth of tequila and like a hundred cups of tea since dinner yesterday. You gotta eat something."
Johnny's stomach roils. He swallows hard, wipes his face with both hands, groans. "I told you already, I don't think I can."
"You're not gonna start feelin’ better if you don't," Danny insists.
Johnny leans back, watches the ceiling spin around the blinding spectacle of the overhead light. "I dunno if I'm gonna feel better anytime soon," he grumps. "This is the worst goddamn hangover I've ever had."
Danny sighs, rolls his eyes. Presses the back of his hand to Johnny's forehead. "Yeah," he declares, "last time I checked, hangovers don't cause a fever."
Johnny brushes Danny's hand away. "The fuck are you talking about?" he protests weakly.
Danny aims an index finger at him. "I'm gettin' a thermometer."
"Like hell you are," Johnny mumbles, sinking into the sleeping bag as Danny marches off.
Danny returns triumphant, brandishing a thermometer, and instructs, "Open up." Johnny glowers back at him from the depths of the sleeping bag, so he offers, "You wanna do it yourself?" Johnny simply returns an unwilling scowl, leading Danny to change tactics and propose, "Or you need me to kick your ass and hold you down?"
Not an entirely idle threat. Danny started to fill out a bit in the latter half of college, and his continued dedication to martial arts training and eventual surrender to Johnny’s campaign to get him into the gym have put a fair amount of meat on that formerly shrimpy frame.
Johnny takes the thermometer grudgingly, sticks it in his mouth. Waits while Danny counts down the time. Hands the thermometer back to Danny.
Danny whistles. "102 and change."
Johnny squints. "Izzat bad?"
Danny snorts. "You're not exactly dyin'. But you're sick as fuck, buddy." He offers a hand. "Come on. You're goin' to bed."
Johnny takes the offered hand, lets Danny help him to his feet and steer him down the hallway to his bedroom. He collapses into bed, lets Danny arrange the sleeping bag around him a little more neatly. Danny steals away for a bit, then returns and sets a fresh mug of tea on the nightstand before settling on the floor next to the bed with a book.
********
Johnny still doesn't sleep. The dizziness makes him feel like he needs to hang onto the bed, almost, and there's a weird sort of twinkly, lava lamp quality to his vision that's both fascinating and terrifying. And the uncomfortable sensation in his chest continues to grow.
Eventually, he starts to cough.
It’s just irritating at first. Itchy, mostly. It seems to keep happening just as he’s starting to drift off into something resembling sleep. But then it gets deeper, louder, more painful. It clashes with the headache, leaving his pulse thundering in his head, sending hot needles of pain spiking through the top of his skull.
The mattress sags next to him; Danny joins him on the bed. "Hey." Danny's voice. A gentle hand on his shoulder, a warm mug in his hand.
Johnny sits up slowly, carefully, guided by Danny’s hand. Drinks deeply. Breathes for a moment. Danny takes the mug back, sets it on the nightstand, and Johnny sinks back into bed. When the coughing seizes him again, Danny leans closer and rubs his back.
"Hey," Danny says gently, "you're gonna be okay. Alright?"
Johnny makes a miserable little sound that turns into another spasm of coughing, then wipes sweat away from his eyes.
"Hang on," Danny murmurs, "I'll be right back."
Johnny lies there, coughing and hallucinating, sweating and squirming. And then a cool, damp cloth touches his face, begins to wipe the sweat away. His face starts to feel less unpleasantly sticky, but his body feels like it's being dipped in cold water. And the fucking coughing won't stop. His delirium begins to send him sailing on rough seas, under heavy bombardment.
The cough fucking sandblasts the inisde of his chest, his throat. The air he pulls in feels full of cinders and ash, it burns and blazes in his core, and his body can’t decide whether to curl around it for warmth or flail away from it for the pain it causes. The bed, the room, is so cold, despite the dizzy glimmer of the afternoon sunlight that dazzles his eyes and keeps his head spinning.
Danny keeps at it, keeps gently wiping his face and neck, rubbing his back, talking to him in soothing tones. But his voice, his touch, fade further away as the onslaught continues. Every cough sends starbursts exploding, fireworks flaring, in Johnny’s vision. He starts to wonder whether he’ll shake apart, starts to believe, with terrified conviction, that this is not only possible, but probable. And then the steady creep of the ice water dip sensation will become a deluge, and he will drown.
He curls in on himself, desperate to buy what time he can.