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Rhys was uncomfortable, his pulse was pounding at his temple and episodic cramps wound him so tight he could only stay still and grit his teeth untill they passed.
He used this time to think over his day.
He shifted his schedule around. Unimportant meetings postponed. The presentation of the new advances in electronics delegated to anyone else competent enough.
The budget he could look over after, he knew finishing both the budget and reviewing the drafts sent from R&D will leave him with only on hour or two of sleep.
He knew he was wasting time. He knew he was wasting valuable money. It's value never clearer than when he scraped and scrounged to build Atlas back up from ruin.
But what other option was there?
He needed this. He was stressed. And he was hot, too fucking hot. He stepped out of his clothes onto the bathroom's cool tile floor, a shiver running down his body.
This didn't alleviate any of the things he was feeling, it never did and yet he did it anyway.
Rhys bent over the toilet, his stomach cramping in protest.
The first heave brought up nothing, it rarely did. Rhys kept jabbing at the back of his throat, determined. A few more tries and the only thing out of Rhys' mouth were large globs of saliva, their flavor foul and sweet. Streaked with the last thing Rhys shoved into his mouth - chocolates.
Rhys kept at it and was rewarded with a forceful retch wracking his body, lumps of food landing into the toilet with a wet splash.
Taking in a few shaky breaths, Rhys quickly positioned himself over the bowl again, not wanting to lose his momentum.
The next retch out of his mouth was followed by a gush of sour, burning liquid. The feeling of it coming up making his eyes prick with tears.
Just as suddenly as it started it abruptly stopped, and Rhys' hands shot over to his throat.
He could feel it bulging, and quickly he shoved his fingers into his mouth to scrape at the back of his throat.
The first heave brought up nothing.
After the second he shoved his fingers as far as he could, scrabbling at the slippery mass that was choking him.
On the third uneventful heave, as helplessness sunk over him he thought of Jack.
Will Jack find him like this? Curled on the floor, lips blue, eyes bloodshot and bulging. Tears streaking his cheeks and vomit streaking his chin.
Naked and vulnerable, his distended stomach grotesquely out of place on his lanky frame. His skin palid and pale.
Jack will come back home, perplexed at the state of it all.
The first thing to greet him will be the dinner table, dirty dishes and carton boxes strewn on it haphazardly. At the table's edge a pile of wrappers so high it toppled over to litter the floor. Crumbs and bits of food strewn across every inch of the table.
In the kitchen all the stove's burners are occupied, and each cookware atop them glistens with the remains of sauce or oil.
The cupboards are thrown wide open, their state of dissaray akin to the aftermath of a robbery. Their contents strewn on the floor or shoved aside, anything to get to what's at the far back.
Jack will start looking for him, disgusted.
But Rhys won't be in their king bed, or the guest room. He won't be snoring on the couch or enjoying the last rays of sun on the patio.
Jack will be worked up by then, yelling out for him and throwing open every door of their house.
Calling his Echo will be useless, remaining unanswered and audible only in Rhys's mind.
Or maybe Jack will figure Rhys has gone out. A CEO never really has the day off, any number of things could get him back to work. He won't really know why Rhys decided to make enough food to last a month and he won't really care. It's none of his business.
Eventually Jack will need to use the toilet, or shower, or wash his face, or shave, put on the cream for his scar, check for food in his teeth, fix his hair, take medicine from the cabinet.
Eventually jack will try the door only for it to be locked. Angry, he'll kick it open, and inside Rhys will be --
Finally the glob of crumpled bread shot out of Rhys's throat and at the floor, landing with a wet squelch.
He crumples down on the cool floor, his chest heaving.
He waits for his breath to come in even and finally he can think again.
Rhys gets up and washed his hands, watching chunks and sticky mucus swirling down the drain.
In the mirror his face is red and shiny with sweat, his eyes dotted with burst blood vessels. Snot runs down his nose and saliva foamed at the edge of his mouth.
He turned to the toilet and stares at undigested, barely chewed pieces of food soaking in the toilet water.
He bends over and reaches into his mouth, feeling the wet, spongy familiarity of it untill his stomach turns and he retches.