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Thinking of it happening rarely but when Cardi does get sick it knocks him on his ass. His throat is scratchy and sore and his voice is shot. His eyes are red and itchy and his nose is so clogged he can’t even talk properly.
“You look like shit.” Swiss looks him up and down quickly. “Like, holy shit shit.”
“Dank you.” he sniffs. God, his face felt so congested; his sinuses were putting so much pressure on his mind, causing a migraine to start forming. He tries his best to ignore it and keep focusing on his makeup.
“You seriously think this is a good idea?” Rain speaks next, “If you don’t feel well, we should cancel the show. It’s better you miss one and rest than push yourself and miss more.”
Copia pauses applying his black lipstick. He sighs heavily through his nose, deflating a bit. He knew his Ghouls were talking sense, but he didn’t want ti accept it. “The fans will be upset,” he tries his first excuse, falling back into tracing his lips. “I’m fine, I can push through.”
“But Papa,” DewDrop starts, but he’s cut off.
“I’m fine,” Copia repeats himself, tossing the lipstick into a pile of miscellaneous makeup items in a drawer. “I appreciate the concern, really. Thank you.” he places a hand on his heart. “But I’m okay, and the show will go on.”
The Ghouls have no choice but to accept his decision and keep getting ready. Come showtime, the migraine had turned into a massive pounding in his head, blurring his eyes and making his stomach turn. The swallows thickly, takes a sip of water and fixed his hair in the mirror. Deep breaths. Let’s go.
The first 3-4 songs go okay. He’s interactive with the crowd as usual, sticking to his witty personality and quirky little dance moves. It’s when Cirice starts to play throughout the venue that things start to get weird. Copia disappears behind the drums, into the little room backstage where he performs his costume changes. No one thinks anything of it, until he misses his queue.
The Ghouls recover quickly, just dragging out the intro with a little battle of the guitars until he finally, finally, came back out. Swiss writes it off as a wardrobe malfunction and focuses on his playing.
Until it happens again.
Year Zero rings and shakes the walls of the venue. Everyone’s waiting for him, yet Copia misses the start of the song again. This time, Swiss considers going back there, but just as he was about to set his guitar down and jet, the bastard is running out and yelling the lyrics like he never missed a beat.
When it happens the third time, Swiss follows him. He gets a lead when Copia ducks backstage again, this time between two songs he wasn’t supposed too. Quickly, he scuffles after him, almost calling out his name.
Copia moved quickly, quick enough that Swiss had to speed walk to keep him in view. They’re pacing down a hall when he takes a sharp right, into the men’s room, Swiss notes.
It clicks when he walks in after him, “Papa?” and is greeted with a retching noise. He looks and finds the poor performer on his knees in one of the stalls, the door still open; he didn’t have enough time to close it and give himself at least some privacy while this happened.
“Papa,” he hears, and wants to sink into the floor. He sniffles and spits into the toilet with a groan.
“Swiss, please,” his voice is raw, “Not now.”
The Ghoul struggles with something to say back; so he doesn’t say anything, and quietly steps forward to place his hand on Copia’s back. For once, he wasn’t trying to make a joke out of the situation. He just wanted to be there.
Copia tenses at his touch, but he didn’t have time to dwell. He retches again, feeling absolutely miserable. He still had a show to finish, he can hear the fans from where he kneeled, but sweet Satan’s sack, did he feel like shit.
“M’sorry.” he mutters, shoving the palms of his hands into his eyes. It felt good, the pressure of his migraine subsiding for a moment the harder he pressed. “I will be back in a minute.”
Now he speaks. “The fuck you mean? You’re not going back out there.”
Copia swallows thickly, flushes the toilet and slowly gets to his feet. He’s shaky, his eyes are red and teary and his makeup is smudged. He looks like he fought a devil and lost. “I am.”
“You’re not.” Swiss says more sternly this time. He didn’t want to overstep, but this was ridiculous. “I’m telling Dew the show’s over. You can barely stand.”
“The shows not over until I say it’s over.” Copia tries to growl, but the energy wasn’t there. “Just please go back out there and play. Please?”
He sounds desperate. Swiss clenches his jaw. “No.”
Copia looks at him. “No?”
“No.” he shrugs. “We’re done. You’re done. Fucks sake, you’re sweating the face paint off. Come here.”
Before he could react, the Ghoul presses the back of his palm to Copia’s forehead. If he wasn’t wearing his mask, he’d would’ve seen his eyebrows fly up in shock.
“You’re fucking hot.”
“Thank you.”
“Alright.” the Ghoul shakes his head. “That’s it. C’mon, we’re getting you undressed. Before you ruin the outfit with sweat or vomit.”
Swiss helps him back to the main room and drops him on the couch before running back out to the stage. He finds Dew immediately, pulling him close to yell in his ear.
Inside, Copia listens to the fans cheering and feels sick again. He hates to disappoint people. But this couch was so comfy, and his body was so tired, and his head felt like it was going to pop off his shoulders.
Maybe Swiss was right.
As he sat there, his eyelids grew heavy. He was so tired and felt so weak. His eyes flutter shut and he finds peace for a moment.
Slowly, the sound of the crowd disappeared, and he fell into a slumber.