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“Sir, are you sure you are alright?” Glacia asked for the third time, a hint of concern sharpening her otherwise even voice. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied Steven’s face, searching for any sign that contradicted his claim.
Steven's voice, still rough from the coughing fit, tSteven’s voice, still rough from the coughing fit that had left his throat raw only minutes before, trembled slightly as he insisted, “I’m fine.” He forced the words out, trying to steady them, trying to sound as composed as ever, but even to his own ears, the effort fell short. His chest felt tight, and a faint burn lingered at the back of his throat, making him swallow against the discomfort.
“Are you still planning on attending Wallace’s gala this evening with the rest of us?” Sidney asked, leaning back against the arm of the hotel room sofa. He raised an eyebrow, skepticism evident not only in his voice but also in the way he crossed his arms. The dim light from the bedside lamp cast long shadows across his face, making his concern look harsher than he probably intended.
“Why wouldn’t I?” Steven replied, his tone firm but tinged with resignation, as if he were stating something inevitable rather than making a choice. “I have a responsibility as the Champion. Besides, Wallace would drag me out of the hotel if I tried to miss it,” he added, releasing a small, weary sigh. His shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly as he exhaled. He knew from past experience that Wallace would not hesitate to travel all the way from Sootopolis to Ever Grande City just to ensure his attendance. If Steven thought for even a moment of hiding in his suite for the night, Wallace showing up at the hotel was all but guaranteed.
“I’m certain he would understand if you weren’t feeling well,” Glacia attempted to reason with the determined Champion. She smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her sleeve, her brows knitting together. Her usual calm demeanor was still there, but there was a softness in her tone that betrayed genuine worry.
“I’m feeling fine. My throat is a bit dry, but that’s all,” Steven said, forcing a reassuring smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He reached over to grab his suit jacket from the back of the chair near the window. The fabric felt cool under his fingers where it had been resting all afternoon. He had left it there earlier in the day because the hotel room had felt too warm, the air heavy and close around him.
What he said wasn’t a complete lie. Despite drinking glass after glass of water in an attempt to soothe his throat, it still felt uncomfortably dry, as though he had swallowed sand. A faint scratchiness lingered, making each swallow feel thick and awkward. Even though he didn’t feel overtly ill—no chills, no fever he could recognize—he tugged uncomfortably at the stiff collar of his shirt and pressed a hand briefly to his abdomen. A slight ache pulsed there, dull at first, but growing heavier with each breath as a subtle pressure began to build.
“Shall we go?” he asked, shrugging into his jacket with a practiced motion. The weight of it settled across his shoulders like a familiar mantle, though tonight it felt heavier than usual, as if the responsibility he’d spoken of moments before had taken on a physical form.
He fell quiet as the other members of the Elite Four chatted animatedly on the way down through the hotel’s corridors and out into the evening. Their voices bounced off the polished marble floors and the mirrored walls, mingling with the soft hum of elevators and distant hotel staff conversations. Phoebe was laughing at something Sidney had said, her bracelets chiming lightly with each animated gesture. Glacia occasionally interjected with a wry comment, and Sidney fired back with his usual teasing.
Drake was the only other one who remained mostly silent. The old sailor walked at Steven’s side, his boots striking a steady rhythm against the floor. He would occasionally murmur a comment about some League matter or grumble at Sidney’s louder jokes, sometimes reaching out with a quiet word to rein Sidney and Phoebe in before they drew too much attention. After each brief exchange, he would fall back into step next to Steven, his presence solid and grounding. Steven appreciated the silent company more than he could say. Having someone there without demanding conversation allowed him to focus on keeping his expression neutral and his breathing even.
When they arrived at the venue—a grand, gleaming hall attached to one of Sootopolis’ more opulent hotels—the group was greeted at the entrance by staff in pristine uniforms and warm, practiced smiles. The soft golden light spilling from the chandeliers above gave everything a faint glow, reflecting off polished marble floors and tall glass windows.
They were shown through the foyer and into the main hall. Steven noted the layout almost automatically, the way his mind always did when he entered a new space. Years of League functions and formal obligations had trained him to pick out details whether he wanted to or not. He counted the exits without consciously meaning to: the main double doors behind them, a side hallway on the left that disappeared around a corner, another discreet door half-hidden behind a tall decorative plant arrangement.
He made a mental note of the nearby hallway for a quick escape if needed—a route he could take if his discomfort worsened or if the crowd became too much. He also noticed several smaller ballrooms branching off from the main hall, their doors propped open just enough to reveal softer lighting and fewer people. Those would make for quieter retreats if he needed a moment away from the noise.
As they entered fully, Steven realized there were more people than he had expected. The hall was already crowded, dresses and suits in every shade of blue, silver, and white—clearly themed to suit Wallace’s tastes. A low, constant hum of conversation filled the air, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or the clink of glasses as servers glided through the crowd with trays of drinks and delicate hors d’oeuvres.
His gaze drifted over the assembled guests: high-ranking Gym Leaders, League officials, influential business figures, and a scattering of familiar faces from Hoenn’s social circles. Among them, Steven spotted several members of the press, small cameras hanging at their sides or notebooks tucked beneath their arms as they mingled discreetly, watching. It was unusual for Wallace to allow them such open access. The Champion’s jaw tightened slightly. If the press was here, then the evening would likely be more public—and more scrutinized—than he had anticipated.
As the group filtered in, Sidney and Drake were immediately pulled away by Wattson and Norman, who approached with broad smiles and firm handshakes. Sidney disappeared between them with a laugh, already launching into a story. Drake allowed himself to be drawn into conversation, though he cast a brief, measuring glance back at Steven before turning fully toward the others.
Across the room, Glacia and Phoebe were being waved over enthusiastically by Winona, who stood near one of the tall windows with her usual composed grace, a faint smile lighting her features. Phoebe practically bounced in her direction, dragging Glacia along with her. Within moments, Steven found himself standing more or less alone, adrift in a sea of people.
His heart skipped a beat when he saw Wallace approaching through the crowd, weaving between guests with the effortless confidence of someone completely at ease in such a setting. Wallace was impossible to miss in a tailored suit of deep sea-blue with intricate, wave-like embroidery along the lapels. The cool tones brought out the color of his eyes and matched the pale blue highlights in his hair, a more recent addition. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he moved closer.
Steven straightened instinctively, forcing his posture into something closer to his usual dignified demeanor. He wondered, not for the first time that evening, what Wallace had planned. With Wallace, there was always a plan: a performance, a spectacle, or some carefully orchestrated moment bound to draw attention.
“May I have this dance?”
The question came the instant Wallace reached him, delivered with theatrical timing. The room was filled with chatter and activity, yet Steven suddenly felt as though a spotlight had been turned directly on the two of them. The orchestra’s music swelled in the background, violins and piano merging into a graceful waltz as other couples already on the dance floor spun in elegant patterns.
Steven found himself in a situation he had hoped to avoid. Wallace approached with an outstretched hand, fingers relaxed but expectant, and a smug, almost playful grin that made it clear he knew exactly what he was doing. The confidence in his expression, the sparkle in his eyes—it all suggested that refusing him would be more complicated than simply saying no.
Steven had always known Wallace to be somewhat overbearing, prone to drama and grand gestures, but somehow he still found himself surprised whenever he was pulled into one of these moments. Hoping to politely decline without embarrassing either of them, he darted his eyes around the crowded room. His gaze skimmed across clusters of guests, chandeliers reflecting in the polished floor, the raised platform where the musicians played. Here and there, he caught quick glances in their direction—curiosity, recognition, anticipation. They were under the watchful gaze of onlookers, some subtle, some not so subtle.
Reluctant to cause a scene, Steven suppressed his growing discomfort. His stomach gave a faint twist, and for a second he felt a wave of lightheadedness wash over him, quickly suppressed by sheer will. He wasn’t in the mood for Wallace’s antics. He forced a pleasant tone into his voice as he declined Wallace’s offer, carefully choosing his words.
“I am flattered by the offer; however, I must decline,” he said with as much poise as he could muster. He kept his expression neutral, lips curved in a faint, polite smile.
Deep down, though, he longed to push Wallace away—to tell him outright that he wasn’t feeling well, that the crowd, the lights, and the weight of everyone’s eyes were all far too much at the moment. But he didn’t want to offend him, especially not when Wallace had clearly gone to great lengths for this event. And especially not when he himself couldn’t quite explain why he felt so wrong.
“Come now, Steven,” Wallace laughed, the sound warm and bubbling with amusement. “It’s a party. Lighten up a little.” His voice carried just enough that a few nearby guests glanced their way. Wallace’s hand remained extended, unwavering, the grin on his face softening into something almost coaxing.
For a heartbeat, Steven hesitated. He could feel the press’s gaze like a physical weight on the back of his neck. Somewhere to his left, a camera shutter clicked quietly. His name—Champion Steven Stone—floated through snippets of nearby conversation. Any refusal now would be noticed, dissected, misinterpreted.
“Very well,” he said at last, the words quiet but clear.
He placed his hand in Wallace’s and allowed the other man to lead him onto the floor. The contact was warm; Wallace’s grip was firm but not forceful, guiding rather than dragging. They slipped seamlessly into the flow of the dance as if they had done this a hundred times before. Around them, other couples spun and turned, skirts and coattails flaring with each graceful step.
Steven placed one hand around Wallace’s hip, the touch light but decisive, indicating that he intended to lead. Wallace’s lips twitched in approval, and he allowed it without protest, adjusting his stance so they fit together more naturally.
Wallace had started flirting not long after Steven had appointed him as Gym Leader of Sootopolis. Before that, they had seen each other only occasionally—formal League gatherings, celebrations after major tournaments, or the rare party Steven was forced to attend for the sake of appearances. Those early encounters had been brief and distant, filled with small talk and polite acknowledgments.
At first, Wallace’s advances had been subtle: a lingering glance here, a quiet compliment there, moments that could easily be brushed off as simple charm. And they had always come when the two of them were alone, tucked away in quiet corridors between meetings or on balconies overlooking the sea.
But over time, Wallace had grown bolder. Recently, his flirting had become more overt, more public. He pulled stunts like this, where he would openly, even theatrically, flirt with Steven in front of others. About a month back, during a particularly lively interview, Wallace had let it slip—perhaps accidentally, perhaps not—that he was “quite fond” of a certain someone in the League. While he hadn’t outright said he was with Steven, he had offered just enough detail for people to draw their own conclusions. And they had.
Steven had his suspicions that this had been Wallace’s intent all along.
Somewhere along the way, though, Steven had grown fonder of Wallace than he cared to admit. He had come to enjoy the flirting—secretly, of course. The playful remarks, the dramatic gestures, the way Wallace’s eyes would light up when he managed to fluster him—all of it had begun to chip away at Steven’s reserve. Every so often, Steven even allowed himself to make a quiet comment in return, something small and easily dismissed by others but enough to make Wallace’s smile widen in unmistakable delight.
As they danced now, Steven initially felt as if he might be alright. The rhythm of the waltz was familiar and soothing; the steps came almost automatically, muscle memory carrying him through each turn. For a brief span of moments, his stomach seemed to settle, the earlier ache fading into a distant, manageable pressure. Wallace’s hand in his felt steady, and the world narrowed down to the music and the movement.
But beneath that surface calm, a gnawing nausea still bubbled restlessly within him, like a slow churn he couldn’t quite ignore. Each time they spun, his vision blurred slightly around the edges, the room’s bright, glimmering lights smearing into streaks of white and gold. The chandeliers overhead, which had seemed beautiful a few minutes earlier, now felt too bright, their reflections in the polished floor painfully sharp.
The lights only served to exacerbate his pounding headache. A dull throb had begun behind his temples, pulsing in time with the music, growing more insistent with each passing measure. The mingled scents of perfume, cologne, and food drifted across the room, cloying and overbearing. He swallowed hard, trying to steady his breathing.
“Are you well, Steven?” Wallace’s voice cut gently through the haze as they turned. From this close, Wallace could see him clearly, every subtle shift in expression. “You feel rather warm.” Wallace’s hand at Steven’s shoulder tightened slightly, more in concern than in control.
“We are in the middle of dancing, surrounded by a crowd of people. Naturally, I feel warm,” Steven replied, the words coming out with a hint of roughness. His throat protested each syllable. He tried to keep his gaze steady, but the room wavered slightly at the edges of his vision.
He despised lying to Wallace, even in such a small way, but it was only a partial lie. The press of bodies around them, the heat radiating from all sides, the overhead lights, the layered fabric of his suit—it was warm. Uncomfortably so. He clung to that half-truth, reassuring himself that he would be okay if he just endured a little longer.
As they turned once more, the movement sharper and more forceful this time, an unusual sensation cascaded over Steven’s body. A wave of dizziness rolled through him, washing over his skin like a sudden drop in pressure. His limbs felt both heavy and strangely weightless, and for a heartbeat, he was no longer certain of where the floor was beneath his feet.
“I’m not so sure about that. You’ve gone pale,” Wallace replied doubtfully. His playful tone had vanished, replaced by genuine worry. He began to guide Steven toward the edge of the dance floor, attempting to pull him away from the center of attention.
But the smaller man tightened his grip on Wallace’s hand and shoulder, instinctively resisting. Whether out of stubborn pride, fear of collapsing in full view of the crowd, or simple denial, Steven refused to be led off just yet, even as his body protested more loudly with every passing second.
"Wallace," Steven cautioned firmly, his eyes darting briefly toward the expectant crowd gathered nearby, their eyes glimmering with intrigue and speculation. The atmosphere buzzed with anticipation, amplified by the presence of media snapping photos and capturing the essence of the gala. "Let’s finish this dance." Despite maintaining a veneer of composure, Steven could feel the simmering disapproval radiating from Wallace, evident in the subtle flicker of his eyes. As the song swelled toward its climax, a knot of trepidation tightened in Steven's stomach, a growing concern gnawing at the fringes of his mind – what if he couldn’t make it to the end of the performance?
With the final turn of the dance pushing his limits, panic surged within him. "Excuse me," he managed to utter, breaking away from the graceful choreography as he stepped away from Wallace’s grasp. He quickened his pace, desperation lacing his stride as he navigated through the opulent hall, peeling away the layers of his composed facade the moment he was out of sight. Clarity struck him as he recalled the restroom’s location; he hastened in that direction, frantically hoping to avoid anyone who might notice his escalating distress.
Upon reaching the dimly lit confines of the restroom, relief washed over him when he found it empty. He entered, seeking refuge from the prying eyes of the gala, darting into the nearest stall. Almost collapsing to the ground, he didn’t have a moment to spare before the first wave surged up his throat, triggering a violent fit of vomiting. The acidic burn scratched at his throat, forcing out guttural coughs and retching that only seemed to provoke his stomach further. How could he still feel so nauseous? Each convulsion felt relentless and unyielding, and as he retched again, he thought he heard the door creak open, followed by the unmistakable sound of a lock clicking shut behind whoever had entered.
Assuring himself that the unexpected visitor had no way of knowing it was him, he tried to find comfort in the privacy of the stall. Except he hadn’t locked it. His heart raced at the thought. It would be fine. He internally chastised the dread that tightened his chest.
“Steven?” The voice was soft yet laced with concern, a familiar cadence that sent another shiver of anxiety through him.
Or not. “In here,” he croaked out, just before another wave of nausea swept over him, causing him to gag. He barely managed to turn his head against the cold toilet bowl when Wallace appeared beside him, kneeling down to assess the situation. He didn’t say anything as he took in Steven’s appearance. The look on Wallace’s face – a mixture of worry and affection – made Steven’s stomach churn anew. Heat rushed to his face, and he knew then that things were about to spiral further out of control.
His mouth filled with saliva as he hung his head over the toilet once again, feeling his stomach convulse violently, relinquishing whatever remnants remained. “Oh, Steven,” Wallace murmured sympathetically, his gentle hand rubbing small, soothing circles between Steven’s shoulder blades. Each thrust of his body sent shockwaves of discomfort coursing through him, and he gasped for breath, the reality of his condition settling in like a cold weight on his chest.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were feeling unwell?” Wallace asked, genuine concern etched into his features. The unspoken tension of Steven’s earlier behavior that evening hung heavy in the air, each glance exchanged revealing layers of new understanding. He winced as Steven struggled to catch his breath before succumbing to another bout of vomiting, gasping for air each time.
Steven fought to respond through his ragged breaths, desperation clawing at his throat. Finally managing a shaky exhale, he mumbled, “I’m fine. Really.”
Wallace released a soft, knowing laugh, but it didn’t carry the weight of humor; it was more a reflection of frustration mixed with disbelief. “You’re not fine. You’re throwing up.” He watched with concern as Steven again succumbed to another wave of nausea, bringing up a small, bitter mouthful of bile. “Seems like you have a stomach virus,” he sighed, reaching for some tissue paper from the roll and handing it to Steven, who still had not faced him.
“I probably ate something bad. I’m fine,” Steven gasped, his voice weak and barely audible as he wiped his mouth with trembling hands. Despite his reassurances, the lingering feeling of illness churned within him, a storm ready to unleash at any moment.
“I hate to break it to you, but that was more than ‘ate something bad,’ and you need to just admit it so I can help you,” Wallace replied, his tone reflecting both firmness and tenderness, leaving no room for refusal.
“Maybe so, but I can make it through tonight and sleep it off tomorrow.”
Steven, feeling unsteady on his feet, attempted to summon the strength to stand, determined to push through the night and deal with the consequences in the morning. But as he pushed against the cool, tiled floor, another sudden wave of nausea crashed over him, forcing him to dry heave, his body convulsing yet again. "Wallace..." he whimpered softly, the exhaustion beginning to overwhelm him, succumbing to the dizziness and collapsing into Wallace's cool embrace.
“Come on, we need to get you out of here. I'll take you back to my place,” Wallace said softly yet decisively. “Wait here for me. I’ll grab a few things and let the necessary people know that I’m leaving.” His heart ached at the sight of Steven clutching his shirt, leaning heavily against him, each whimper drawing him deeper into concern. Steven must truly be feeling unwell to cling to him as he was. Gently, Wallace pried Steven’s fingers loose from his shirt, offering reassurance. “I’ll be back soon. You’ll be okay.” It took all his self-control not to press a comforting kiss to Steven's feverish forehead, feeling utterly helpless as he turned to leave. He hated seeing Steven in pain.
Steven's body collapsed as Wallace stepped away, leaving him with no support, and he crumpled to the floor. Curling up on himself, he buried his face in the crook of his arms, battling feelings of utter helplessness. Why hadn’t he realized sooner that he was sick? Why had he focused so obsessively on ensuring that tonight would be a success when his body was clearly in distress?
He struggled to remember what he had been preoccupied with earlier in the day. What had consumed his attention so thoroughly that he ignored the signs of illness? He couldn’t recall anything of real significance at work aside from checking a few reports for Devon and preparing for the upcoming presentation with his father. No, nothing that could have consumed all his attention to the point of neglecting his health. Then his mind drifted back to his earlier conversation with Wallace, how Wallace had expressed his anticipation for the gala, urging Steven to be there and to enjoy himself. Could that have been the distraction that led him to overlook how poorly he felt? Perhaps he had seemed distracted after their conversation…
As the door creaked open once again, Steven instinctively tensed, his heart racing with anxiety. But as the familiar voice of Wallace reached his ears, a wave of relief washed over him.
“Alright, it’s time to get you out of here. Up you go,” Wallace said, his tone warm and reassuring as he swiftly hoisted Steven up, wrapping a firm arm around his waist. Steven’s face paled, his stomach churning as the nausea intensified. He let out a small whimper, and Wallace, quick to respond, gently positioned him over the toilet just in time for the first dry heave to escape his lips.
“Oh darling…” Wallace murmured, his voice laced with sympathy as he expertly rubbed small, soothing circles on Steven’s back with his free hand, a comforting gesture meant to ease the discomfort within him until the retching subsided.
“Can we just get out of here?” Steven’s voice came out weak, almost a whisper, the tremor betraying his growing exhaustion.
Wallace’s heart sank at the sight of Steven’s frail demeanor, the weakness palpable in his voice. “Of course,” he replied softly, the urgency to help his friend clear in his eyes. He wanted nothing more than to provide some reassurance, to take him away from this place that felt oppressively heavy with his pain.
With a shaky breath, Steven stood once more, fumbling slightly as he straightened his rumpled clothes. Wallace stepped closer, taking Steven’s hand gently, their fingers interlocking briefly before he led Steven toward the door. The flush of heat on Steven's face intensified as Wallace's free hand pressed against his forehead, confirming his troubling suspicion that he was running a fever. He took note of the way Wallace’s expression shifted. Without saying a word, Wallace opened the door, his eyes scanning the hallway and the bustling crowd outside, trying to find a path that would keep them far from prying eyes.
Once they were outside, Wallace's voice dropped to a near whisper. He spoke softly, his words a gentle melody meant to keep Steven calm, though his heart raced with a mix of concern and protectiveness. The embarrassment of being sick in front of Wallace clawed at Steven's insides, almost as much as the fever that clouded his mind.
As Wallace settled into the driver’s seat, he handed Steven a plastic bag, though Steven's pride stung at the gesture. With little strength left, he accepted the bag, curling up in the passenger seat and resting his head against his knees. Soon, the warmth of the car and the lull of the ride coaxed him into a troubled sleep, the oppressive weight of his illness trailing him like a shadow.
The next thing he knew, he felt the world shift as Wallace lifted him out of the car, carrying his limp body with an ease that was both comforting and disconcerting.
“Sorry. You were sleeping, and I didn’t want to wake you,” Wallace explained sheepishly as Steven’s eyes fluttered open, though the concern etched on his face was hard to ignore.
"I can walk," Steven protested weakly, determination flaring despite his body’s betrayal. Deep down, he wanted to prove to Wallace that he still had some semblance of strength left. Just as he began to stand on shaky legs, his stomach seized violently, betraying him at the worst possible moment.
“Are you feeling sick again?” Wallace asked anxiously.
Taking a deep, shaky breath in hopes of easing the churning in his gut, Steven managed a weak "I think so," in response to Wallace’s question.
"Let’s get you to the bathroom," Wallace said, his tone swiftly turning serious as he guided Steven through the house. Gratitude surged within Steven as Wallace closed the door behind him, offering what little privacy he could muster in this vulnerable moment.
Mortification surged through him as memories of earlier washed over him. He loathed being sick, despised the idea of anyone seeing him like this, but more than anything, but what he hated most was throwing up in front of someone.
With another violent retch, Steven's embarrassment faltered, swallowed by the urgency of his body’s involuntary demands. The discomfort prickled under his skin—itchy and suffocating, as though his clothes were chains binding him to this moment and he wanted to tear away the fabric. He was shivering uncontrollably now, the violent contractions of his muscles causing his entire body to ache and scream with pain. Desperate for relief, he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it aside, but it only offered fleeting comfort.
He shifted between leaning against the wall and losing the remnants of what little was left in his stomach, each wave of nausea intensifying and dragging him further into a haze. Time stretched around him as he battled his stomach; it felt like hours before a soft tapping broke through his fog.
“Steven? Are you alright?” Wallace’s voice echoed gently through the door.
As another wave of bitterness rose within him, he scoffed to himself, knowing full well he was far from alright. It seemed like things couldn't possibly get any worse than they already were. Gagging again, he fought to keep the tears that threatened to spill at bay, stubbornly refusing to cry. As he heard Wallace knock once more, he desperately wanted to respond, to let Wallace know that he was fine. Just as he found his voice, the sound of the knob turning sent a jolt of apprehension through him.
"I’m coming in, okay?" Wallace called, a blanket of warmth layered with concern in his voice.
Steven felt the dread well up in his chest at the words that he knew were out of concern. He hadn't answered. Wallace probably just wanted to make sure that he was alive. “Fine,” he rasped weakly as something cool landed on his neck, though he knew the word held little truth. “I’m fine.”
“Need to find something else if that was meant to be reassuring. You are far from fine. Arceus, Steven, you're burning up! Your shirt is soaked…” Wallace’s surprised and worried tone confirmed the gravity of his situation. He yanked his hand away from Steven’s neck and, without waiting for a response, rushed off, promising to find something cooler for him to wear.
Wallace needed to calm down. His heart pounded insistently against his ribs, the vibrations reverberating throughout his entire body like a drum signaling impending danger. He took a calming, albeit shaky breath as he raked through one of the dresser drawers, pulling out a soft t-shirt and a pair of shorts. Swallowing the rising tide of panic that threatened to overwhelm him, he steeled himself and pushed open the bathroom door once more.
What met his eyes made the breath catch in his throat. Steven lay motionless on the cold tile floor, his frame seemingly small and fragile in that moment. The shallow, raspy breaths that staggered from his chest sounded like a broken whisper echoing in an empty room, each breath a painful reminder of his distress. Wallace observed the rapid rise and fall of Steven's chest, each rise a fragile hope that he would pull through this.
"Fine, my ass," he mumbled under his breath, a mix of disbelief and frustration bubbling to the surface as he dropped to his knees beside Steven. He reached out and gently shook Steven's shoulder, his heart racing with urgency. "Steven, I need you to wake up," he pleaded, trying to keep his voice steady. When that gentle nudge yielded no response, desperation clawed at him. He squeezed Steven's shoulder a bit harder and tried again, "You need to wake up." Panic seeped into his voice as he shook him harder, his distress mounting. “Wake up! Damn it, Steven, open your eyes!” The last shake was a last-ditch effort, and suddenly, Steven groaned—a sound that felt like music to Wallace’s ears—as he inhaled a shaky breath and finally cracked his eyes open.
Confusion danced in Steven's gaze. His eyes, usually bright and lively, now brimmed with an unsettling mixture of concern and fatigue. Wallace jumped as Steven reached up with a trembling hand, brushing it against his cheek with a softness that contrasted the gravity of the moment.
"No need... to cry..." Steven’s voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper.
Had Wallace been crying? He scrubbed at his cheeks with the backs of his hands, forcing some semblance of a smile. "At least you’re awake now," he tried to inject a lightness into the heavy atmosphere.
"What do you mean?" Steven rasped, pushing himself up slightly, the effort evident in his shaky movements.
Wallace's expression turned serious as he leaned closer, scanning the pallor of Steven's skin. "You lost consciousness," he said, urgency threading through his voice. "I need you to tell me how you are feeling. Honestly."
"Tired. Sick. Dizzy. Weak… Cold," Steven replied, his breath hitching slightly as he spoke, each word laced with discomfort and exhaustion. A chill ran through Wallace as he heard his boyfriend's confession—it was alarming how much worse he seemed.
Another thought tugged at the back of his mind, persistent and uneasy. Had he really just referred to Steven as his boyfriend? The word echoed uncomfortably, wrapping around him like a warm, yet constricting hug. He recalled the moments they had shared—the playful banter, the unguarded laughter, and the way Steven’s eyes sparkled when their hands brushed against each other. Flirting had become second nature to them, a dance that they both seemed to enjoy, but calling it something more felt like stepping off a cliff into the unknown.
Questions swirled in his thoughts like leaves caught in a gust of wind. Was this what they both truly wanted? The thrill of being with Steven was undeniable, but so were the complexities that came with being public figures. Their every move scrutinized, their private lives dissected by the press and fans alike. What would this mean for their careers? For their reputations?
He could already envision the headlines, the speculation, and the hashtags that would flood social media. But in that moment of confusion, he could also feel a warmth in his chest at the mere thought of being with Steven. He had to unpack all of that later, to sort through the implications and emotions that were starting to bubble to the surface. For now, though, he allowed himself a moment to simply enjoy the flutter of excitement and uncertainty that accompanied this new label.
Wallace muttered a curse under his breath as Steven groaned, feeling the weight of dread settle in the pit of his stomach where the fluttering had just been. It was evident that Steven was becoming increasingly dehydrated, and before he could fully express his concern, he watched in horror as he leaned over and gagged again. Wallace anxiously chewed at his bottom lip, realizing that the situation was not looking good for Steven, and he knew that if things didn’t improve soon, a trip to the hospital would be inevitable. "I would feel better if you were somewhere I could keep an eye on you," he reasoned, trying to mask his worry behind a façade of calm. Despite Steven calming down, he continued to gently circle his hand on Steven's back, silently offering support and comfort.
"I'm sorry for keeping you up. I feel really bad for intruding like this," Steven mumbled, accepting the tissue Wallace handed him, his embarrassment visible.
“First of all, you’re not keeping me up, and you’re not intruding. Not at all,” Wallace reassured him, his voice steady but soft. He took a moment to gather his strength, adjusting his stance before saying, “If you’re that worried about it, then how about this?” In one smooth motion, Wallace climbed to his feet and, with careful consideration, lifted Steven with him. “Let’s get you set up in the master bathroom, where I can be close by if you need anything. I’ll grab some blankets to make sure you’re as comfortable as possible.” The thought of having his sick boyfriend-to-be sleeping on the floor was unbearable, and this arrangement was a fair compromise. To Wallace’s relief, Steven appeared to agree.
Moving Steven into the other bathroom turned out to be a simpler task than Wallace had anticipated. He carefully assisted Steven, ensuring each movement was smooth and considerate. He helped him shift from the hard floor, where he had been resting, and guided him into the new space, which was bathed in a soft, warm light filtering through the frosted window.
Once there, Wallace settled Steven onto a freshly made bed of soft blankets and plush pillows piled high, creating a cozy nest for him. The room smelled faintly of citrus from the air freshener, which added a calming touch to the atmosphere. Wallace paused to look at Steven, assessing his comfort before he went to grab the change of clean clothes, neatly folded and set aside.
Next, he made a quick detour to the kitchen. The cool tiles felt refreshing underfoot as he reached into a high cabinet and retrieved one of his well-worn thermal water bottles, its matte surface a reassuring presence in his hand. With purpose, he filled it a quarter of the way with crisp ice cubes that clinked merrily against the sides, before adding chilled water straight from the tap. The sound of the rushing water filled the otherwise quiet space, creating a tranquil backdrop to his thoughts.
Wallace returned to Steven, who had settled back against the pillows, a look of peaceful exhaustion resting on his features. Though Steven didn't say much during the entire process, the gratitude shining in his tired eyes was unmistakable, speaking volumes of his appreciation for the care he was receiving.
Wallace stood a few feet away, watching intently as Steven struggled to loosen his tie, his hands trembling as if they were caught in a fierce storm. The sight tugged at Wallace’s heart; he could see the fear and uncertainty etched across Steven's face. Hesitantly, he closed the distance between them, his own pulse quickening. With gentle determination, he grasped the textured fabric of the tie and pulled it off, feeling a strange mixture of relief and tenderness as he unbuttoned the top button of Steven’s shirt. Each movement felt charged, like the air before a storm Zapdos had brought, and he could feel a warmth creeping into his cheeks, certain that his face mirrored the flush deepening across Steven’s features.
The room felt strangely intimate, cloaked in an almost overwhelming quiet, as Wallace clumsily navigated the task of helping Steven change. He pulled the t-shirt from the counter—it was a little big for him, perhaps a casual remnant of days spent lounging around. Steven’s figure seemed fragile in that moment, and as he awkwardly maneuvered the shirt over Steven's head, Wallace tried not to linger too long on the way the fabric hung loosely on him, the hem brushing against his midsection before falling past his hips.
His attention flipped to the shorts lying on the counter, suddenly feeling like a daunting obstacle. The air felt thick with unspoken words, and Wallace swallowed hard, clearing his throat to break the silence that had descended upon them. “Do,” he started, his voice unsteady as he struggled to find the right phrasing. He darted his eyes toward the wall, as if seeking the courage hidden within the paint. “Do you need help? I mean, you’re unsteady. But if you don’t need it then—”
The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. Steven's face turned a deep crimson as he processed the awkwardness of the moment, a mix of embarrassment and vulnerability washing over him. The room still swayed around him, a cruel reminder of the fragile state he found himself in. With a soft sigh, he finally muttered, “I suppose…” His voice barely rose above a whisper, as if he were conceding to an unspoken intimacy that now enveloped them both.
Wallace hadn’t expected that response. As a rush of adrenaline coursed through him, his heart raced in a mixture of excitement and apprehension. He felt a warmth pooling in his cheeks, but he quickly shook off any lingering doubts. With a steadying breath, he knelt down to help Steven unbutton his dress pants, the faint rustle of fabric filling the air around them.
Realizing the gravity of the moment, he needed to pause and gather his thoughts. He moved to tug Steven’s shoes off, taking care to be gentle as he worked the laces free. The soft thud of the shoes hitting the floor punctuated the silence, and he could feel the tension between them shift imperceptibly.
Returning his focus to Steven, Wallace hooked his thumbs inside the waistband of the dress pants, the fabric cool against his skin. He tugged the pants down just enough, giving Steven the space he needed to maneuver the rest on his own. Wallace’s gaze was firmly fixed on Steven's face, searching for any flicker of hesitation or discomfort. He wanted to ensure that they were both still in sync, moving together in this delicate moment. Besides, he had more respect for Steven than to steal a look.
After a brief pause, he handed Steven his shorts, the fabric smooth and familiar in his grasp. Observing closely, he watched as Steven pulled them on, a subtle look of relief crossing his features. Wallace felt a wave of reassurance wash over him as he admired Steven's determined expression, grateful for the trust that lay between them.
“Do you want to try some crackers?” Wallace offered, hoping it might coax some nutrition back into Steven’s system.
Steven shook his head slightly in response, leaning against Wallace as though he was drawn to him for comfort. It was less of a mere lean and more like he was seeking refuge in Wallace’s sturdy frame.
“Got it. Feeling pretty miserable,” Wallace acknowledged, allowing his hand to instinctively rest on Steven's forehead. He sighed softly, noting with concern that Steven's skin felt warmer than before, a sure sign that his fever was climbing. “Can you try some water at least?” he asked gently.
“I guess I can try,” Steven replied, a hint of resignation in his voice.
Wallace extended the bottle of water, his eyes fixed on Steven’s face, searching for any flicker of hope. "That’s better than not trying. Just start with small sips, okay? You need to keep as much down as you can." His tone was firm, trying to instill a sense of responsibility in Steven to take care of himself.
Steven followed Wallace's advice, though his eyelids drooped heavily, a clear sign of his exhaustion. But as he feared, he couldn’t keep the water down—his body was rebelling against any attempt at sustenance. Wallace was right yet again, and in the following hours, the situation deteriorated rapidly. Steven went from feeling bad to worse to utterly miserable, and the cycle of vomiting every thirty minutes began, each episode taking a greater toll on his already depleted strength. Each time after, he would try a few sips of water at Wallace’s insistence.
Desperately seeking comfort, Steven propped himself against the cool wall, unable to find any small relief from lying flat on the floor due to the sharp pain radiating from his abdomen. Despite Wallace’s best efforts, which included wrapping him in a soft blanket, Steven continually pushed it away, caught in the relentless alternation of feeling too hot and too cold. In fleeting moments, he managed to drift off into a light doze, only to wake up feeling even more miserable than before.
Embarrassingly, he found himself curled in Wallace's lap during one of those half-aware periods, a position he found both comforting and humbling. Feeling utterly drained, he mustered a weak suggestion. “You should try to get some sleep.” From the corner of his blurred vision, he saw how exhausted Wallace looked; dark circles framed his worried eyes, and the tension in his face told Steven just how hard he was trying to hold it together.
Without hesitation, Wallace shook his head firmly. "There’s no way. You need me right now," he declared, his voice resolute and unwavering.
Steven winced, his throat raw and sore from the abuse it had endured, making even the simplest communication feel like a challenge. He muttered, "There’s no point in both of us being tired," his words driven by shared concern but heavily laced with discomfort.
Wallace’s anxious chewing of his bottom lip betrayed the worry brewing in his eyes. He stared intently at Steven, feeling his own heart sink at the sight of the man he cared for so deeply in such a sorry state. The shadows of exhaustion were creeping up on him too, but the thought of leaving Steven alone in that condition filled him with dread. He knew he had to stay alert—ready in case he needed to rush Steven to the hospital.
"Fine," he relented, his voice softened slightly, "but I'll be in the next room. Wake me up if you need anything." As he bent down, he pressed a gentle kiss on Steven’s head, concern finally making him act on his desire. He chuckled lightly as he noticed the way a deep blush crept up on Steven's cheeks—a sign that he was finally beginning to come around. As he turned to leave, a worried glance lingered on Steven, who lay pitifully on the cold, hard floor, now wrapped in two blankets
Alone now, Steven felt a wave of loneliness envelop him despite knowing that he had asked Wallace to leave him there. The chill of the floor seeped through him, amplifying the emptiness he felt inside. Longing for Wallace's comforting touch and the soothing timbre of his voice, he was struck by a sense of guilt for craving those feelings. He was being selfish. He reminded himself that he and Wallace were not in a romantic relationship, that Wallace owed him nothing more than the temporary refuge he had provided. He should’ve been grateful for the sanctuary, even if it was momentary.
Suppressing a sigh, Steven thought of the alternative—a return to the hotel, back to the isolation of his own thoughts. Reality melded with his weary mind, and he felt his eyelids grow heavy, his breathing evening out even as he floated on the cusp of sleep, never fully breaking through the barrier into the dream world he so desperately craved. The minutes were indistinguishable—five felt like thirty, and thirty bled into fifty. His body stubbornly resisted the sweet release of slumber.
Suddenly, another cramp jolted him back, his stomach reminding him it was there. He was acutely aware that his stomach had nothing left to expel, but his body obeyed its own instincts. He retched again, the spell passed more quickly than the last, leaving him dazed and feverish, floating in a haze of disorientation. His body felt ethereal, as though it were made of glass, while his mind teetered on the edge of consciousness.
When the cramps finally subsided, Steven pushed himself up and shuffled toward the sink, peering into the mirror. His ashen complexion stared back—sunken cheeks, glassy eyes. The reflection reminded him of the toll his illness had taken. Splashing cool water on his face offered a semblance of relief, though it sent shivers racing through him. Disoriented, he squinted at the cracked door and flicked off the bathroom light. His familiarity with the darkened room guided him, comforting his aching head, until he unexpectedly collided with an unfamiliar obstacle—his dresser, which felt out of place. Dismissing the errant thought, he finally crawled into bed, seeking solace in the embrace of his blankets and the cool touch of his body pillow against his fevered skin.
The pale grey light of morning seeped through the edges of the curtains, casting soft, muted shadows across the cluttered room. Despite this gentle illumination, the space remained shrouded in a persistent gloom, the corners filled with darkness that seemed reluctant to give way to the new day.
Steven lay in bed, acutely aware of the passage of time, each tick of the clock amplifying his fatigue. He had been awake all night, his mind unable to fight his body, which refused to settle. The weight of sleeplessness pressed down on him, and he could feel the strain etched into the lines of his face.
As he finally allowed his eyelids to flutter back down, surrendering to the exhaustion that clawed at him, he felt an overwhelming wave of relief wash over him. The creaky mattress beneath him seemed to envelop him in its familiar embrace, and the world outside faded into a distant hum. Just as he began to drift off, the soft chirping of Taillow outside floated in through the window, a reminder that life continued beyond his walls, yet he felt grateful for the brief respite as he slipped into the solace of sleep. As his mind gave in, one last thought slipped through. When had he bought a body pillow?
Wallace slowly opened his eyes, the morning light filtering through the window casting a warm glow in the room. However, the unbearable warmth and stickiness on his chest yanked him from the remnants of sleep. As he focused and attempted to shake off the lingering drowsiness, he was startled to discover something softly pressing against his chest, gently nuzzling him. Looking down, he found Steven curled up against him, his flushed face nestled in the curve of Wallace’s neck, breathing heavily, lost in a restless slumber.
Cautiously, Wallace shifted, repositioning himself to lie on his back as he adjusted Steven so that the smaller man's head still rested comfortably against his chest. The gentle movement seemed to rouse Steven from his sleep, and he blinked blearily, instinctively snuggling deeper into Wallace's warmth. A small smile tugged at Wallace’s lips as he whispered, "Good morning."
Suddenly, Steven tensed, his body jolting away as if he had been stung. “Oh, Arcues! Wallace… I…I didn’t… I’m so sorry!” Panic flashed across his face, and confusion danced in his tired eyes. He was entirely disoriented, with no recollection of how he had ended up in Wallace’s bed. The full force of yesterday's illness crashed over him, and he pressed a hand against his stomach, groaning in dismay.
"Steven, please don't worry. You have nothing to apologize for," Wallace replied, his tone soothing and patient. "I wasn’t trying to wake you. You still don’t seem to be feeling well. Has your fever improved at all?" He gently placed the back of his hand against Steven's warm, pink cheek, then checked his forehead. “Maybe just a little,” he added, noting the persistent heat radiating from him.
Steven mumbled groggily, “Could have fooled me,” as he leaned forward, finding a brief sense of relief from the pressure on his stomach. He shut his eyes, trying to escape the nightmare that felt all too real around him.
“Do you want to go sit in the bathroom again?” Wallace asked, worry lacing his voice. “I think we should try to get some medicine in you.”
Steven shook his head slowly, overwhelmed by the intense heat emanating from his body as he burrowed deeper into the warm embrace of the blankets. After a moment’s indulgence, a wave of self-awareness hit him, prompting him to resolutely push himself upright. "I'm sorry," he repeated, as if the words were a mantra—an unhealthy reflex he couldn’t shake.
“I’m only going to say this once, so listen up,” Wallace replied, his gaze locking onto Steven’s with a fervent intensity. “You do not need to apologize to me. For anything. Period. Do you understand me?”
Steven dropped his eyes, feeling the weight of Wallace’s words yet unable to fully embrace them. “You say that but…” he trailed off, the blanket suddenly fascinating.
"No excuses," Wallace said firmly as he wrapped an arm around Steven’s shoulders, pulling him closer. "If you're not comfortable, we can always move to the couch. But either way, you need to rest."
“Couch then,” Steven replied almost immediately, realizing the kaleidoscope of feelings flooding through him.
“Very well. Go on in there,” Wallace instructed, a hint of warmth in his voice. “I’m going to see what I have for your fever.” He gave Steven a fond, almost tender look before heading into the bathroom.
Wallace rifled through the contents of his medicine cabinet, knowing well that most of his supplies were still packed away in his travel bag. Luckily, he discovered a bottle of Tylenol, pristine and unopened, alongside a box of Dramamine that had gone unused. Satisfied, he emerged from the bathroom to find Steven stretched out on the couch, his eyes half-closed, finally beginning to succumb to the pull of rest.
With a quiet sigh of relief, Wallace set the medicine down on the floor next to the couch, taking a moment to admire how peaceful Steven looked, even amidst his illness. He was finally getting rest. He padded into the kitchen and refilled the water bottle with more ice and cold water. After a moment, he returned to the couch, the fabric warm beneath him, and began preparing the medicine with a practiced hand. “Steven, I need you to wake back up.” he urged, his voice soft. “Hey, I know you want to sleep, but you really need to take this first.”
“Fine,” Steven muttered, his tone laced with reluctance, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the pills. The mere thought of swallowing anything made his stomach churn, still queasy and unsettled from the night before.
“Hey, I get it,” Wallace replied, his voice soothing, as he prepared to help Steven sit up. “But think of it this way: If you keep it down, you’ll start feeling better. You didn’t manage to keep any water down last night, and that means you’re dehydrated, which is only making you feel worse right now.”
Wallace gently coaxed Steven into a sitting position, offering his support as Steven leaned against him, the weight of his body heavy with exhaustion. He held the Tylenol up to Steven’s lips, pausing a moment to gauge his readiness. After what felt like an eternity, Steven reluctantly opened his mouth just a crack, allowing the pill to slip past his parted lips. Wallace then repeated the process with the Dramamine and, though he initially intended to offer Steven the water, he hesitated when he noticed how badly Steven's hands were trembling. Instead, he held the metal bottle to his own lips and tilted it slightly, encouraging Steven to take small sips as he watched him carefully.
Once the medication was down, and after a few moments of contemplation, they settled into the couch’s embrace, a sense of comfort wrapping around them. Wallace picked up his book from the table, positioning himself so Steven’s legs rested gently in his lap. It didn’t take long for Steven to drift off again, though he was caught in a restless state, never completely succumbing to sleep.
“Despite what you might think, I very much enjoy your company,” Wallace said casually during one of Steven’s fidgety spells. He helped Steven sit up further, rubbing his hand in soothing motions along Steven’s back as he whispered words of comfort, doing his best to help him breathe through the nausea that threatened to overpower.
“Yeah right,” Steven grumbled, casting a glare toward his lap, the weight of his thoughts heavy. “After last night, I severely doubt that.” The reality of his feelings crashed down on him, a bitter realization that he believed his chances with Wallace were now lost. He hadn’t even known he wanted this opportunity until it felt eternally out of reach.
His eyes widened in surprise as Wallace’s cool fingers grasped his chin, gently yet firmly eliciting a reaction. He had no choice; he was drawn to meet Wallace's turquoise gaze, the depths of those eyes swirling with sincerity and something more he couldn’t quite decipher.
“I think you sell yourself short,” Wallace began, leaning in closer, his voice low and earnest. “It’s not your fault that you’re unwell, and it certainly doesn’t reflect poorly on your character. I still find you attractive,” he continued, his breath warm against Steven’s skin, “and I would still choose you as my dance partner.”
Heat flooded Steven’s face, a combination of embarrassment and anxiety churning in his stomach, intensifying the wave of nausea. The words felt like both a comfort and a burden, and he struggled to maintain Wallace's gaze. “Please don’t tease me,” he mumbled, the quiet request tinged with vulnerability.
Wallace let out a soft sigh, and Steven found the courage to glance back, meeting the younger man’s intense gaze. Wallace’s expression was serious, devoid of mockery, smoothly settling back on the couch, yet an unmistakable pain lingered in his voice that tugged at Steven’s heart.
“I wasn’t teasing you, Steven. I’m being completely serious,” Wallace replied, his tone unwavering. “My intention was never to take advantage of you. I’m sorry if you felt that way.”
“No, it’s my fault,” Steven said, a rueful smile flickering on his lips despite the tension in the room. “I suppose I was just being overly sensitive.” He paused then, a sudden cough interrupting his words, a sharp sting creeping up his throat. “I was worried that you didn’t feel the same way as I do.”
Wallace gently reached out, pulling Steven’s arm and drawing him closer until he was lying against Wallace's chest. The warmth radiating from him felt like a soothing balm, settling Steven’s racing heart. “I do,” Wallace whispered, his voice tender. “Now just rest. If you feel up to it later, we can discuss this more.”
“Can we stay like this then?” Steven asked, his voice almost just a breath.
“Naturally,” Wallace replied, his fingers gently combing through Steven’s hair, the soft, rhythmic motion lulling them both into a sense of peace. “As long as you want.”