Warning: This chapter got pretty cracky, so it might be disturbing to some readers. If you have a weak stomach, you might not want to continue past this point.

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January 15, 2013 at 3 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob

"Hey, Mitch!" Preston yells from his spot on my loveseat bed, where he has lain sprawled out since sometime yesterday afternoon. I have officially been delegated to the brick-hard armchair adjacent to the loveseat, unable to leave because of Mitch's eagle eyes, and unwilling to leave Preston to writhe in his misery out here by himself. I have a feeling that he doesn't want to tell us what's really going on with him, but he's seriously worrying me at this point. A simple backache doesn't make someone moan and groan this pitifully for this long, and he's not usually one to bitch quite this much - that's Mitch's job.

"Yes, Robert?" Mitch sighs as he appears at the top of the staircase, looking at me as if he's daring me to say something about his snide comment. Preston doesn't seem to notice and just looks up at him pathetically with his big, dark brown eyes, unwilling to move from his precious spot.

"I don't think I can make the plane," he mutters as Mitch's eyebrow shoots up in suspicion.

"Dood, I know you've had an absolute blast here with us, but you have to go home sometime. Why can't you go this afternoon?" Preston looks like he's about to say something snarky, but his mouth snaps back shut and he just shakes his head. We both wait for his answer.

"I honestly can't sit in one place for like four hours, plus however long it's gonna take to get on the freakin' plane and get my crap back from the conveyor belt-thing. Please don't make me go."

"I would normally let you stay as long as you wanted, but I have tickets to Jersey tomorrow to meet up with Jerome and Batman for business. No offense, but I don't trust you alone in my house. Why do you think I kicked Nooch out as soon as he was sober enough to drive?" Preston looks completely miserable and utterly defeated, and I give in against my better judgment.

"You can stay with me, if you want to." Preston looks up at me like he had never considered that a remote possibility and the corners of Mitch's mouth turn up in the beginnings of a smirk. "I have no plans to go anywhere until PAX in March, and maybe not even then. If Mitch can exchange your tickets, you can stay as long as you want to." We both look over at Mitch, and he gives an exaggerated sigh and fishes his phone out of the pocket of his sweatpants while he walks over to the kitchen.

"Let me see what I can do." Preston actually looks like he would have been happy if he wasn't so miserable.

'What is going on with him? What is he trying to hide?'

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January 15, 2013 at 5 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Preston

I always thought seeing Rob's place for the first time would a fun thing. Like I'd fly up for his birthday or a convention or something and we'd just chill a-boot and have a good time and go explore the city or something. Nope. This freaking sucks fire and brimstone and it's absolute torture. What'd I ever do to deserve this?

"If I have it, you are welcome to it, with a few exceptions," Rob says as he bows and beckons for me to limp into his flat. It's about as dark and dreary and empty as I remember from The Great War of 2012, but he has a couple new things that weren't there during my virtual tour on Skype last summer. Mostly just a bunch more game controllers and one or two pictures on the walls.

"I don't want your vibrators, Robert. Trust me, they're safe." I step weird and a jolt of pain shoots up my spine and down my legs. I try not to let it show too much but it's the most excruciating thing in the world. The last thing I want is for him to chauffeur me to the ER like I have cholera or something, 'cause then it'll be embarrassing and way too much money for me to afford right now.

"Who said I had vibrators?" He's stopped in the doorway, looking in at me like he's mortally offended. I'm sure Mitch knows more about him than either of them want him to know since he lurks around watching him all the time, so I'm gonna take Benja's word on this one.

"Mitch, when he was eating you out of house and home. Don't even try to deny it - you're such a derp you can't even lie good."

" 'Can't even lie good,' " he laughs as he tries to pass it off, but I can see his face flush even in the low light and he finally shuts the door behind us and walks over to turn the lights on. I thought it'd be warmer in here than outside... I almost can't tell the difference. Is he an environmental freak or is he seriously so broke he actually lives without heat like this? Why doesn't he tell us these things? Idiot's gonna die from pneumonia in here! "Do you believe everything Mitch says?" He looks over at me with his I'm-trying-to-look-innocent troll grin but I'm not falling for it. Eventually he caves from me staring at him. "I never said anything about a vibrator."

"You have something. I can smell the guilt on you, you pleb. You can't fool a lava mob that easily."

"Yeah, you're really one to talk about hiding things," he scoffs as he grabs my gym bag of crap and carries it down the hall to get it out of the middle of the floor. He knows I'm not gonna move as soon as I sit down on the couch. He pads back to the living room in his dumb blue striped socks and sinks into the chair next to me so we're sitting almost just like we were over at Mitch's house.

"And what the frick is that supposed to mean?"

"I know you've been lying about your back hurting for the last three days. Tell me what's really going on," he says quietly as he tucks his legs under him and leans back against the back of the chair. He looks like L from Death Note. Why can't this guy ever keep his feet on the ground? Is it made of lava or something? Even at Mitch's place, he had his feet up on the desk, or he'd sit crosslegged on the couch, or with his feet up on the armrests in front of him at the movie theater. It's like he's afraid his feet are gonna get dirty or something. Maybe he should just keep his shoes on.

"I wasn't lying! My back really freaking hurts!"

"Preston... The only time you act like it hurts is when you sit down or stand up. I don't mean to get in your business or anything, but... Is there something going on between you and Mat?" Okay, no. What the absolute frickity frack is he on?! Is he on drugs? In what universe would I ever want anything to do with a naked Nooch, or even a fully-clothed Nooch? I can barely stand eating dinner with him and Mitch and Rob at a restaurant. How would I ever be able to stand him... doing that? Even thinking about it pisses me off.

"Are you freaking kidding me right now?"

"I didn't mean-"

"No. Just a million times over absolutely friggin' no. I wouldn't've even come on this trip if I knew he was gonna be there. So no, I'm not getting it on with Noochface."

"O-kay!" he shrieks in the high-pitched breathy voice he always uses when he's annoyed. This ish ain't even funny. "What's really going on, then?"

"I told you, my back hurts."

"Where does it hurt? I can go buy you a heat compress if you need me to. Look, I don't want to sit here and watch you hiss and groan in pain for however long it's going to take for you to feel better on your own. Just let me help you." I'm tempted to tell him, but I can't. Nothing good can come outta that. And I'm not gonna make him run out in the snow to get something for me like I'm his pregnant wife or something. I'm not gonna die. I hope.

"I'm fine. It's just really stiff. I'm not used to the cold, so that's probably what it is." He doesn't look convinced. Dad gommit, Rob.

"Preston. Just let me help you. If it bothers you this much, you really need to deal with it before it gets worse." We sit in silence for a few more seconds and I can't make myself look up at him from his Mitch-foot-scented couch. I hafta look really pathetic, laying facedown with my forehead where everyone and their mom have put their butts for the last millennium and a half. "I won't tell anyone about it, whatever it is. We have each other's backs, right? You helped me out with my depression, so let me help you with this."

"It's not the same thing. I... No. I don't wanna talk about it."

"Are you embarrassed?" More silence, and I can hear a dumb smile in his voice when he starts talking again. "I have seen Mat skip down Mitch's hallway in the nude. Twice. One of my friends in college made me feel his balls under the table in a pizza parlour to see if I thought he had a lump. When I was six, I walked in on my parents fucking. My roommate during my last stint in the nuthouse ate his own shit while the guard took pictures. There are few things left in this world that can shock me, and if it's causing you this much pain, you need to take care of it."

"But it's really gross," I whine and I'm ticked off at myself for sounding so needy and annoying, like I'm a hungry three-year-old who needs a nap. Now he's just gonna bug me more than ever. Why can't he just leave me alone like Mitch and Daka and Mom always do? Why does he hafta be so freaking nice all the time?

"Try me. Whatever it is, it can't possibly be the worst thing I've ever seen. Cauldron Boy still holds that honor." I sigh and stall for time, and I look up at the clock and see it isn't even six o'clock yet. I don't see a way outta this and he's just gonna keep pushing me until I give in. Maybe I should ask him to go get that heat thing after all.

"So there's this thing that's genetic on my bio dad's side of the family that Sam gets, too. It's really gross and it hurts like frick on stilts and I hate it." I pause and hope he'll just tell me never mind. But no, he's just sitting there looking at me like he's interested now, like a freakin' buzzard or a therapist or something. Crap. I really didn't wanna do this. "So there's this little hole thing like on my tailbone and... sometimes it gets clogged up with skin cells and sweat and stuff and it gets infected and red and swollen and nasty, and it hurts too much for me to sit, so I couldn't go home. I know it's gross, but I couldn't sit for hours on end when it hurts like this. It just isn't possible to do. I can't even start to imagine how much that would suck. I barely made it ten minutes in your car."

"Like I said earlier, I'm not going anywhere. You're welcome to stay for as long as you want, but you have to chip in with food - we aren't working with much here."

"You literally saved my butt. Now can we stop talking about this?"

"No, let me help you." Now I wish I hadn't said anything again. He's not gonna let this go now, is he? He's just gonna keep on nagging me until he gets his way or my ears fall off. I guess this's what it feels like when I bug him to take his meds all the time. "Does it have an actual name, or...? What is it called?"

"Why?"

"I'm going to Google it so we can figure out what to do."

"No! We aren't gonna do anything! I'm just gonna chill here until it disappears, then I'll text Mitch and have him switch my plane tickets to the next day. Don't worry about it, Robert." He just rolls his eyes and dramatically pulls out his phone to start searching like the ultra pleb he is. "Rob! Stooooop."

"No!" he squeaks, not even bothering to look to see if I'm gonna hit him or something. He knows I can't freaking move, so he's gonna use that against me and sit there on his big, giant bird perch that's like two feet away and ignore me. Sometimes I really don't like this guy.

"Rob!"

"Is it called a 'pilonidal cyst'?" I don't answer and he just looks back down at his phone and starts reading something. I shouldn't've said anything. This's gonna get so awkward. "You know, I could help you with this. I have done really dangerous things that have almost gotten me killed and lived to tell the tale, but sticking a needle in a butt pimple isn't going to kill either of us."

"No, Rob."

"Preston."

"I said, no! It's disgusting and I don't want you touching my butt." That struck a nerve and he looks offended. Dangit, Rob.

"Bro, I wouldn't do anything to your butt."

"I didn't say you would."

"I don't want to sit there and stroke it and rim you. I'm offering to pop it for you so you won't be in excruciating pain for days on end. If you don't do something, you might get gangrene or blood poisoning, then you would have to spend days in the hospital and get cheek implants. Let me help you so we can both move on with our lives."

"No. It's nasty and I'm not gonna make you do that."

"You aren't making me do anything. Look, it even says on here that you shouldn't just let it sit around like that because it might get worse, or it might spread even deeper. I'm going to guess that you can't do it because you're still suffering heroically over there. I have gloves, alcohol, and gauze in the bathroom, and I'm sure that I can find a needle somewhere. We could be done in twenty minutes if you would stop being such a little bitch about it." Ouch. I guess I'm getting on his nerves. I really, really, really, really, really don't wanna ask him to do this, but I'd rather be embarrassed for the rest of the time I know him than get gangrene in my butt and have to have parts chopped off. I nod gently and I don't think he can see me, but he slowly gets up and walks down the hall to the bathroom from hell. I don't even wanna know what else he's done in that bathroom.

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January 15, 2013 at 5 PM, Montreal, Quebec: Rob

I can understand why he might not want me to help him, but does he have to be so stubborn about everything? He acts like it would kill him to give in every once in a while and ask for someone else's help. Then again, maybe I shouldn't be talking. I walk into the bathroom and grab the peroxide from under the sink and lay out a clean black towel before I risk going to get the rest of my supplies. I silently look out at him to see if he's watching me, but he seems too wrapped up in pulling himself back together to pay any attention to me creeping around. I skirt into my room and take the false back out of the second drawer down in my dresser to get the gauze and gloves I had stashed from my last personal plastic surgery session. I replace the drawer like I had found it, concealing my small collection of scalpels and a bottle of expensive rum that I have been hiding from Mat for two years. When I get my makeshift surgery station set up in the bathroom, I slowly walk back out to get Preston; I tap him on the shoulder and he shakes his head and moans loudly.

"You really don't hafta do this. Please don't do this to yourself," he whines, like that will stop me from trying to help him. If something happened to him because I didn't do this for him, I would never be able to forgive myself. He doesn't seem to understand that we are in this thing together. I pull up on his arm and he gets to his feet jerkily, trying to cause himself as little pain as possible.

"Just go in there and wait for me for a second. I need to find a needle to lance it with." I go to the kitchen to search through the junk drawer that is mostly full of odds and ends that Mitch, Mat, and Dad have left behind since I have moved in here. At the very back of the drawer, I find a large, silver sewing needle with no signs of rust or debris. I gently close the drawer and follow Preston into the bathroom. He's standing there, leaning his side against the wall by the towel rack: he looks beyond miserable. "I know you don't want to do this, but I need you to pull your pants down for this to work, bro."

"I really don't-"

"Preston, I have seen other people's asses before. Yours isn't going to be that different. Now would you please cooperate?" He sighs dramatically and turns away from me to unbuckle his belt while I wash my hands and unscrew the lid on the peroxide to sterilize the needle. I grab a small paper cup from the cabinet and pour it in, letting the needle soak in the clear solution while I pull on a pair of gloves and set up everything on top of a clean black towel. After the gauze pads are unwrapped and spread out on the towel, I fish the needle out and let it soak in a second, fresh cup of alcohol, just to be sure that it's completely sterile.

"You're really prepared for this, aren't you?"

"My grandpa and brother are both doctors - it runs in the family. I also have quite a bit of practice. Besides, I would rather not have you trying to sue me after one of your cheeks falls off." He stands facing the mirror and looks at me through my reflection, his eyes dark and uncertain as he watches me work.

'Does he seriously not trust me? Is he that convinced that I would try to rape him or hurt him somehow? I thought we had gone through all of this already when we had to share a hotel room the first time.'

"You have to pull your underwear down, too. Seriously, bro? How do you expect me to work here?" He bashfully pulls his boxers down to his knees and pulls his shirt up out of my way. I try not to make a face when I see it, but I can't help but feel awful for him. How long did he put on a brave face and try to hide this? I don't blame him for not taking that flight home. All of the skin around the top of his ass is bright red and swollen, and a huge yellow bubble is seated right at the base of his tailbone. I'm surprised that he didn't go to the emergency room to have it taken care of - it looks like a good source of sepsis.

"Is it that bad?" he asks jokingly with a hint of fear laced in his voice. He turns to look at me, but I just nudge him back in place with my shoulder and grab a gauze pad and the peroxide to begin cleaning it.

"It doesn't look as bad as the pictures online, but I can't believe you were willing to live with this until it decided to spontaneously combust. Maybe you have a higher pain tolerance than I do, but still... This is bad, Preston."

"I didn't choose to get it. It chose me. It just kinda happens if I sit in one place for a really long time or if I sit on something that's too hard for a while. Once it starts, there's nothing I can do about it until something makes it pop. Then it's really disgusting. Are you sure you wanna do this?"

"If I didn't want to help you, I wouldn't have offered. I would rather have both of us grossed out for a couple of minutes than have you in the hospital for a week. Now stand still. I know it hurts, but if you move, it will only hurt more." He sucks in a long breath and holds it while I use the gauze pad to sterilize the area around the pocket of infection. His muscles twitch away from me, every movement making my body tense up more. I don't want to hurt him, but I have to in order to help him. "Okay, so that wasn't too bad."

"Says you, Mr. Hands."

"You weren't even screaming. It couldn't have been too bad." I fish the needle out of the cup of peroxide and dry it off on a clean gauze pad, then I turn to look at him in the mirror. He's still watching me warily, unsure of whether he can trust me or not. "Not going to lie: this part is probably going to hurt quite a bit. If you stay still and don't try to fight me, we can be done in a minute or two. The more you move, the more it's going to hurt and the longer it will take."

"Okay," he whimpers as he leans forward so his pelvis is against the sink to stabilize himself more. I put my left hand on his lower back and push him forward to keep him from moving. He takes a breath like he's about to protest, but thinks better of it and shuts his mouth. I find the area of the cyst where the skin seems to be the thinnest and take one more glance up at him in the mirror, his dark, wide eyes still trained on my face.

"When I count to three, I want you to take the biggest breath you can and hold it for three seconds, then let it out. Ready?"

"I guess." His voice is like an octave higher that usual, but he isn't arguing with me for once. I can't tell if this is progress or not.

"Alright. One, two, three." I feel his lungs and ribs expand a few centimeters above my hand, then his body freezes. Slowly, he begins to let out his breath, and I take that opportunity to push the needle into the head of the immense boil. I had been hoping to distract him, but his breath escapes from his lungs all at once with a sharp whimper and a violent jerk. "Preston, don't move."

"Ow, ow, ow! Okay, no. Stop. Stop, stop, stop!"

"We're almost there. Just a couple more seconds."

"Oh God Almighty, that hurts. Stop! Rob!" Every word comes out as a higher, louder squeak than the last. He tries to push away from the sink to make me withdraw the needle, but all he manages to do is jab himself even harder. He yelps pitifully and resigns himself to his spot, his forehead propped up on the faucet. I decide to risk it and give the sore a sudden poke. Instead of crying out in pain, Preston collapses onto the sink in relief and exhaustion as the real fun begins.

It takes a few seconds for the smell to hit me as I push the gauze pad against the streaming needle hole, tossing the bloody needle aside on the counter as I reach for more gauze. The bathroom fills with the sweet stench of infection, blood, and sweat. Lucky for him, it doesn't smell like rotting flesh or he would be sitting on a towel on the way to the hospital right now. I can barely keep up with the flood of pink-streaked yellow pus, and soon I have run out of gauze entirely.

"Can you grab the toilet paper and start unravelling it into little layered squares like these?" I ask as I wave the last gauze pad up by his elbow, frantically trying to keep up with the thick fluid before it can stain his clothes or the bathroom rug; this is the minigame from hell. When Jerome dies, this is the kind of party game he's going to be playing with Mat, Mitch, and me for all of eternity. I gently press on the red area around his tailbone to drain the inner pocket of infection, and he doesn't even react. After all of the pain he's been in for the last few days, I wouldn't be surprised if he couldn't even feel this. It gets harder and harder to soak the pads of paper until there is only a few drops of bright red blood on the last piece. I toss the barely-used wad of toilet paper up on top of the pile on the counter and stand all the way up, reaching over to grab the small trash can to slide all of the used supplies into. Finally, I grab the bottom of the palm on my left glove and take it off inside out, using the clean surface to peel the other glove off.

"Done?" he asks, as if he's surprised that there was an end to the violent stream of infection. He straightens up a little, preparing himself for the spike of pain that never comes. I know the feeling: being so used to cuts and stitches along my arms, I brace myself whenever I move.

"Done. For now, at least. It will probably drain for a little while still and we might have to lance it again later, but that should be most of it." He bends down to grab his underwear, but I reflexively reach over and swat his hand away. "No, you have to take a shower and put clean clothes on. The last thing you need is to get it even more infected with dirty clothes." He just stands there and watches me pull out a bottle of cleaner and quickly wipe down the counter and put everything away, his face scrunched in confusion.

"I told you earlier my stuff's all dirty. Mitch told me it was for four days, so I only packed for four days."

"I own clothes. I can find something for you to wear where you won't freeze to death. Probably." I tie the trash bag shut and carry it out to the hall where the linen closet is, and I grab him a towel and wash rag before turning and throwing it in at him. He just looks at me uncertainly from his spot in front of the tub, his belt and zipper undone and his pants halfway up his legs. "I'll be back in a minute to find you something to wear. I don't want this in my apartment anymore." He nods and shuffles forward to shut the bathroom door, shifting his eyes away from me to avoid meeting my gaze.

'What have you done now? How long is he going to act like this?'

'Are you surprised? This is Preston you're talking about. That was probably the closest thing to sex that he has ever had. Did you just expect him to be okay with it as soon as it was over?' I sigh and unlock the door, taking my time walking down the hallway to the trash chute and back. I would avoid him for the rest of the night if I could, but real life doesn't work like that. I eventually get back and lock the front door behind me before heading to the kitchen to wash my hands very, very thoroughly. They smell like latex, but thank Notch they don't smell like pus. I head to my room and start shuffling through the drawers, looking for a size or two bigger than what I usually wear. When I finally find a long-sleeved shirt that will fit, I turn around to see Preston staring silently at me from the door across the hall, unwilling to leave the warm steam of the bathroom. He looks down at the clothes and rolls his eyes before stepping back into the bathroom, the first grin of the day fighting its way on his face.

"Everything you own is black, white, blue, or has video game stuff on it." I toss the clean clothes on the counter before grabbing the South Park boxers Mom bought me years ago and waving them in his face. He snatches the giant Cartman head from my hands and nudges the door shut with a smirk. I head to the kitchen to unearth my collection of take-out menus and begin sorting through them, looking up only when Preston reappears with a massive pile of dirty red and black clothes.

'He might get over this sooner than I thought.'

"That goes over here in the corner," I say with a straight face, pointing to a spot by the end of the kitchen counter, watching as his forehead creases in confusion. When he sees me pointing at the trash can he rolls his eyes and threatens to put the mound on top of the coffee table. "No, it's behind the folding door by the bathroom. Just throw everything in and I will take care of it."

"I know how to do laundry, Robert."

"Not in my apartment you don't. I will take care of it." He sighs exasperatedly and rolls his eyes, slouching on his way back to the hallway. I hear him open the little door and, when it sticks on its track like it always does, he stops.

"Hey, senpai?"

"Just yank it and it will open. I told you, you don't know how to do laundry here in my domain."

"Typical Canadia. Nothin' works, not even Rob."

"I did my job! Now get over here and pay the bill." He reappears with his wet, tousled hair and a frown, his hands in his pockets to hide his wallet like the walking stereotype he is.

"What bill?"

"The dinner bill. Either you buy, or we both get ramen noodle surprise."

"Ugh. F-ine," he groans as he steps into the kitchen and I walk around him to go fight with the washer from hell.

"Thank you!" I gently tap him on the butt with my foot and he turns and tries to grab my leg to no avail. "Touchy, touchy!"

"You touch the butt, I keel you. Freakin' cactus." I head down the hall where he can't see me, and I turn and see that he is still smiling while he leafs through the menus.

'Jerome might know more than I give him credit for. What an absolute mess.'