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There’s barely a hint of green visible when his lashes flutter and he looks at me. Nodding, he slides down in the bedand curls onto his side. His mouth is parted slightly, and I can hear the rattling, coarse pattern of his breathing. Every now and then he heaves a wet, wracking cough. I wait, giving him a solid fifteen minutes to fall asleep before I stand and bend over him. As lightly as I can, I rest the back of my hand on his forehead the way my mom used to do to check for fever. It doesn’t feel like he has one, but I need to find an actual thermometer. He doesn’t stir when I touch him, so I flip my hand around and brush gentle fingers through his hair. That done, I head off in search of a thermometer and some food.
On my way out the door, I stop dead as I notice something hanging on the wall. Above his dresser, in a spot he’d see it every day, is the quick sketch I’d done and given him. It’s framed, and is the only piece of artwork he has hung up in the entire house. My eyes burn as I stare at it. He wouldn’t have kept it if I—we—didn’t mean anything to him. The knowledge sits undigested in my stomach, right next to the fact that the world hasn’t changed even if I have. His reasons for not wanting to take things further were good ones, and I’d do well to remember it even if I don’t like it.
Nico sleeps until the alarm goes off on my phone, signaling that it’s time for the next round of antibiotics. After eating a quick meal in his kitchen, I’d sat next to his bed and watched the painfully slow rise and fall of his chest as he slept. I felt a little bit creepy, watching him like that, but I also felt that if I didn’t, he might stop breathing and die. So, there I sat.
Getting up, I rest a hand on his shoulder and try to coax him awake. Leaning over him like this, I can better hear the agonizing struggle of his lungs and make a mental note to have him use the inhaler, too. He also feels a little warmer than he had before, but that might just be the byproduct of wearing my hoodie while simultaneously being covered in a mountain of blankets. We’ll use the thermometer, just to be sure.
“Anthony?” He coughs, turning his head away from me and into the pillow.
“Hey, sorry, but you’ve got to take your medicine. And use the inhaler. And drink some water.”
“And use the bathroom,” he adds, slowly pushing himself to a seated position.
“You’re full of jokes when you’re sick, you know that?” I pass him the water. He takes a couple small sips, but doesn’t manage quite as much as he did with the Gatorade. He takes the antibiotics without argument, swallowing painfully and taking a few more drinks of water. The inhaler is rougher, because it sends him into a hacking fit that is too forceful for him to soothe with some water. Eventually, the coughs subside and he’s able to drink something. I hand him the Gatorade instead of water, because he seemed to like that better. He gulps down half the bottle.
When he shuffles off toward the bathroom he does so with the bone-aching weariness of someone who feels terrible. But he’s moving around, which hopefully means that the dizziness has subsided. I’m waiting in my chair, alarm already set for the next round of meds, when he ambles back in and crawls under the sheets.
“Want something to eat?” I ask, hopeful that he’ll tell me he’s starving and that he can handle more than broth. He’s far too skinny.
Watching my face, he smiles half-heartedly. “Sure.”
He eats half a bowl of chicken noodle soup, pausing to rest between bites like the activity is taxing. When he can’t eat any more, he silently passes the bowl off to me and I finish the rest. I wonder if I should text Corwin and ask if there is a way I can sneak extra nutrients into the broth; maybe I’ll stir in some protein powder, and hope he doesn’t notice.
“Are you cold?” I ask. He’s got his hands pulled into the sleeves of my hoodie, which looks massive on his wiry frame.
“I’m fine.” I raise an eyebrow at him, and he amends, huffing out a slightly annoyed breath. “Okay, yes, I’m cold. It’s cold in here, right?”
“Wrong.” I’d turned the heat on when we arrived, and it’s not even that cold outside. Snatching the thermometer I found in his bathroom off of the bedside table, I hold it out to him to use. It comes back 99.7, which is high, but not high enough to call Dr. Lopez. Handing him some ibuprofen, he smiles wanly at me.
“I feel slightly ridiculous, with you taking care of me like this. I’m not dying, you know.”
“Could have fooled me. You look like I should be pre-booking you a slab in the morgue.” He chokes on a laugh, which devolves into a coughing fit. “Sorry, Nico. Here.”
He takes the Gatorade, drinks a sip, and slumps back against the pillows. There is color high on his cheekbones and his eyes are bright with fever and a little bit of joy. I want to kiss him so badly I have to clench my hands on my knees to keep from reaching for him.
“Jesus Christ, I’m glad you’re here,” he tells me, wearily, as though this isn’t the equivalent of a punch to the gut.
“I’m glad you asked me to come.”
He inhales as deeply as he can, lungs struggling, and settles back down like he’s going to go to sleep. His eyes are still open and on mine, though, and they look a great deal less hazy than earlier.
“Are you still dizzy?” I ask, leaning forward to put my face closer to his.
“Not as bad as before. Are you tired?”
Fucking exhausted.Between the early morning wakeup call and the stress of the day, I could sleep for a week. Thethought of having to go to practice tomorrow is not appealing. But, that being said, I have no intention of leaving this chair until I know he’s going to be okay. “I’m alright.”
“Mm.” Nico watches me. “You could lay down with me, if you wanted.”
Another gut punch, this one served with a side of longing so potent I can taste it. “I wouldn’t want to disturb you.”
He considers this for a long, quiet moment. “You sitting in that chair, watching me sleep, is already pretty disturbing.”
“Okay, smartass.” Smiling, I stand and move the chair back to its respective corner. Tugging off my shirt and pants until I’m standing in nothing but boxers, I leave everything in a pile and walk to the other side of the bed from him. He’s turned over and is holding the blankets up, giving me space to crawl inside. There is a good two feet of distance between us; I’m so close to the edge of the bed, if I move, I’ll roll right off.
Nico reaches out a hand and snaps off the lamp on the bedside table. Since it’s still sunny outside, there is enough light peeking around the curtains to lend visibility to the room. He’s got his back to me again, having rolled over to flip off the light.
“Anthony?”
