Medication, Part 6 (Patreon)

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Summary: All his life, Tristan’s mother forced him to take a daily medication, but never really told him why. After Tristan goes off to college, he starts skipping doses, and finally realizes just what the medication is for. Monthly mpreg. Contains: Male: belly expansion, breast expansion, butt expansion.

Previous Chapter

-

Tristan continued to frantically search the campsite, even after the others had packed up the tents, loaded themselves with gear, and stood by waiting, many giving him odd looks.

“Tristan, what is the hold up?” said an impatient voice.

Tristan froze. The team leader, John, and come to stand beside him.

“It’s already close to noon,” John added, tapping his watch for emphasis. “What the hell are you looking for?”

“Er…my pack,” Tristan admitted.

“You left it out?” John raised an eyebrow. “I warned all you fuckers against leaving stuff out!” John raised his voice and glared around at the others, as though they had disobeyed him as well. Finally, he turned back to Tristan. “The pack’s gone. Let’s go.”

“No!” Tristan blurted out, causing John to shoot him a wary look. “I mean—can you give me another five minutes? I’m sure it’s here somewhere.”

“We’re losing daylight every moment we stand here watching you flounder around like an imbecile. What the hell was inside of it anyway?”

“Just…my radio,” said Tristan, trying to temper himself. “Some rations, my mosquito net, a journal, some gear, and…and my medication.”

John’s eyebrow rose higher. “Your medication?”

“Yeah…” said Tristan awkwardly.

John rubbed his temple. “Is it serious. Life-threatening?”

“Not…not life-threatening…” It was the exact opposite. “But—”

“You’re going to have to go without it. I’m not calling an emergency airlift because an intern is having a panic attack.”

“It is an emergency.”

“Then convince me.”

Tristan hesitated and pressed his lips.

“You made a commitment, Tristan.”

Tristan’s stomach lurched, and he folded his arms tightly against it, feeling himself blanch as he realized he had missed the deadline to take the pill. He was pregnant. He sagged.

“We’re just another two weeks to the retrieval site. Grab your shit. You have thirty seconds.” With that, John walked off to join the others, who by then, we murmuring as they surveyed the scene.

Tristan hastily and gracelessly packed (or rather, crumpled) his tent into a spare hiking backpack, unceremoniously shoving all his other belongings in after it. He loaded the heavy weight onto his back, unsure of whether he should have even been lifting forty-plus pounds of crap, considering. Fuck, he thought, biting his lip. Between the heavy load, the constant walking, and the small food portions, he couldn’t imagine this pregnancy would be a healthy one. Then again, he had done sports throughout the previous two. He would probably…probably be fine.

Then he had to consider his meager clothing supply. What would he do when he got too fat to squeeze into anything?

Only two weeks, he reminded himself, though his nerves shattered as he trudged after the others. He was barely pregnant. Not even a day in. In two weeks, he would definitely be showing, but not enough that anyone would notice, and certainly not to the point that he couldn’t fit his clothes. As long as the next two weeks went smoothly, and on-schedule, everything was going to be fine.

-

“Are you okay?” Fiona asked as Tristan stumbled back into the clearing.

Tristan forced a smile. “Fine.” He wondered if she had heard him throwing up. He knew he was pale. The morning sickness had been relentless the past few days.

Fiona gazed at him a moment longer, before they both turned their gazes to John, who was seated on the floor of the clearing, his legs akimbo, and his face twisted in pain.

It was the fourteenth day into their journey to the retrieval site, which would mark the end of the expedition. In fact, they were mere hours away. Of course, John had decided to go ahead and break his ankle, which had resulted in the present delay.

Tristan paced, trying not to look or listen as two of the physicians worked to set John’s twisted, purple ankle. Tristan was nauseous enough, as it was.

His chest was tender, his stomach pressurized beneath the growing curve there. His clothes were just beginning to get tight, his pants especially hard to button now.

Thankfully, no one else seemed to notice. Everyone was too exhausted from the continuous hiking, trying to make up for lost time—most of it being Tristan’s fault. Between his increasing sluggishness, and all the times he’d had run off to suffer bouts of vomiting, most of the delay was entirely on him, and he probably shouldn’t have been as pissed off as he was that John had gotten himself hurt.

“There’s nothing we can do for the pain,” Derek, one of the medics, was saying to John in an apologetic tone. “Are you up for continuing on?”

Tristan absently pressed his hand against the wisps of movement he had only begun to suffer recently. It was bound to get strong and disrupt his ability to sleep in another week or two. He couldn’t believe there was another baby in there.

He continued to pace, even though he was drained, and his back was sore, and he felt like he could collapse at any moment. His hiking backpack was too heavy, and he had gotten worried, so had begun to secretly throw away a lot of his gear to lighten it. He mooched off Fiona a lot now for food and supplies, and she was quietly baffled by the large amounts of things he claimed to have lost two weeks ago when the monkeys had taken his small pack.

Tristan pressed the heel of his hand to his navel. He knew he was going to start blowing up at any moment, what with it being the midpoint now.

“Yeah,” said John roughly, though he looked like he wanted to cry.

Tristan breathed a sigh of relief.

“Let’s go,” said Derek.

The ankle-break had delayed them two hours, but if they hurried—if they kept a good pace—they would make it just in time for transport out of the forest.

“Yeah,” said Tristan, swinging on his, admittedly light, backpack. He covered a belch, reddening.

Fiona sneezed.

-

“Helicopter left a half hour ago,” said Martha. She was the middle-aged woman who maintained the departure site. Tristan had met her briefly before the expedition had started.

Shelves of supplies lined the walls of the cabin. Through a back window was a large helipad, which looked out of place on the edge of the forest.

“Your group is welcome to stay here, but the next flight doesn’t leave til next week,” Martha went on.

Tristan’s stomach flipped. Covering his mouth, he ran into what he hoped was the bathroom, and found himself on his knees purging what little his stomach contained into a ceramic toilet.

The feel of the ceramic was nice—Tristan tried to see the bright side of things. He was grungy, sweaty, and sore, and had been living in the forest for the past four weeks. The hard, cool, synthetic surfaces was a refreshing change, as was the sound of water pouring out of the tap as he leaned down to rinse his mouth. He liked the cool, crisp taste of the tap water, in contrast to the muddiness of lake water. To say this was a stressful pregnancy would be a momentous understatement. He was chronically worried about the baby. But he tried to stay on the bright side.

When Tristan exited the bathroom, John had already been laid out in a cot, one of his arms covering his eyes, his chest heaving gentle. The others were being led through a door off the main room. Tristan followed to find a large, empty room, with wood floors, and a pile of sleeping bags piled in the corner.

“It isn’t much.” Martha shrugged unrepentantly.

“It’s an improvement,” Fiona insisted, as she sniffed and rubbed her nose. She grabbed one of the sleeping bags.

“Thank you,” said Tristan, though he couldn’t bring himself to smile. The sight of the hard floors just made him almost want to go back outside and sleep on the dirt.

Martha peered at him. “Are you alright?”

“Fine.”

Martha nodded. “Try to get some rest.” She walked out of the room and glanced back at them. “Plenty of food. Help yourselves.”

Tristan knew he’d take her up on that.

-

It was the eighteenth day into his pregnancy, and Tristan couldn’t get comfortable.

He tossed and turned into the early morning, fidgeting in his sleeping bag. He vacillated between being too hot and too cold. His back was killing him. He curled onto his side, huffing out a sigh. Then he sniffed.

His nipples were dark, sore and swollen, sticking out obviously in his shirts. The areolas had widened and gotten puffy. He could feel himself beginning to develop breasts again, could see his chest softening with fat, but hopefully he would be long gone before it became too noticeable.

His belly was rounded and pressurized, sticking out as though he was almost six months pregnant. He absently rubbed his hands against the tension and movement, circling his fingers on his navel and grimacing. It was so comfortable there, and he pressed into the skin, trying to alleviate some phantom irritation. It was tense, and he massaged the tight skin. It was almost like…

Tristan gasped as he belly button popped outwards. He cursed under his breath, frustrated with his own stupidity. How am I going to hide this!?

He froze as Fiona began to have a coughing fit on the other side of the room. As it subsided, he stared at the wall, somehow knowing that sleep was a hopeless aspiration by then. He climbed up, crossed his arms over his waist, and slipped out of the room.

Once in the main room of the cabin, Tristan grabbed a few cans of beans, a loaf of bread, and sat down at Martha’s work table, where he began to munch. He knew supplies were limited, yet he ate as much as he could when no one was watching. He had been ravenous lately. And he was really rounding, just like he’d anticipated.

His waistband uncomfortably was digging into his flesh, the button holding on by a hair by then. He was swelling every day. He could hardly hide it anymore.

Just three more days, he reminded himself.

Tristan had withdrawn from the others in his continued efforts to hide his condition. He kept his head down and remained apart from the group, not even socializing with the other students anymore. They thought he was depressed, or going a little crazy, which suited Tristan fine. As long as he was left alone, he could get through this without his pregnancy becoming some mortifying spectacle.

“She’s getting worse.”

Tristan’s eyes snapped up. It was only then that he noticed the front door was ajar, and with the cool night air, voices wafted in from the porch.

“Are you certain it’s the same disease the tribespeople are suffering?” said Martha’s voice.

“Yes,” Derek’s responded. “I didn’t want to alarm her but…as things are, she won’t make the trip back to the north. Not without the antidote.”

“And it’s just Fiona?” said Martha.

“I suspect James is sick as well. We might all be infected by now.”

Martha huffed out a sigh. “The medical bay is only a day and a half walk from here.”

“Right. I can be ready to leave in—”

“No. I want all the medical staff to stay here in case things take a turn for the worse.”

“But with John down, that only leaves Tristan, Tim, and Miguel.”

“That will have to do.”

When the door opened, Tristan felt some strange compulsion to dive under the table. Instead he remained frozen stiff, his baby kicking at his navel in a way that made his heart sink.

Martha nodded to him. “I’m guessing you heard.”

“Yeah,” Tristan managed. He wanted to talk his way out of it, but there was no way he would succeed, not when lives were at stake. Not without looked like a selfish asshole. So instead, he nodded, absently hugging his girth. “I’ll go pack,” he said, as he stood and trudged into the next room.