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He’s being so nice; far nicer than I feel like I deserve. Reaching for the inhaler, I take a large puff and hold it in for as long as I can. It tastes like shit, but if it helps me breathe, I’ll use the damn thing for as long as necessary. Feeling as though I can brave the spinning of the room, I stand and shakily walk toward the bathroom. Snapping on the light and closing the door, I get a good look at myself in the mirror and flinch.
I’m always pale when compared to Anthony, but now my skin is nearly translucent. There are deep blue bruises beneath my eyes, and I don’t remember my cheeks ever looking so hollow. I don’t remember missingthatmany meals. No wonderAnthony has been trying to force feed me. Wishing I’d left the light off, I take care of business and head back into the bedroom. He’s standing by the other door, clearly on his way out of the room.
“Oh, you’re leaving?” It’s pitiful, how desperate I sound just then. I don’t even care; what I care about is himnotleaving. He’s probably not going for good, though, seeing as he’s in his underwear and nothing else.
“No. I’m going to go get you some soup though. Do you think you could eat a little bit? You’re not supposed to take medicine on an empty stomach, and you’re due for antibiotics in a half hour.”
“Sure, yeah, food sounds good,” I try to punctuate this with a smile, but Anthony looks unconvinced. Probably because I’m lying through my teeth—food sounds awful right now. “While you’re getting that, I think I might grab a quick shower.”
I feel disgusting—sticky and sweaty, and unable to smell anything beyond the nauseating hospital scent clinging to me. I want to put this hoodie back on and smell Anthony, not antiseptic. He doesn’t have the expected reaction to these words, however. He bites his lip and looks me up and down uncertainly, no longer intent on heading downstairs for food.
“What’s wrong?”
“Well…” He hesitates. “I don’t really feel comfortable leaving you alone in the shower. You said you were dizzy, and what if you slip and fall…”
He looks nervous—worried that I’m going to be offended by his concern. It’s not a comfortable thought, but he’s right. Sagging a bit, I nod and walk back over to the bed. “You’re right, probably not a good idea.”
He grips my arm before I can sit down, drawing my eyes to his. “I could help you, if you wanted. We don’t need to make a bigdeal out of it. I can just stand there and make sure you don’t lose your balance.”
I must have been a Saint in a previous life, to have been given Anthony in this one.As embarrassing as it is, I’m willing to trade my pride for a shower right now. Besides, it’s not as though he hasn’t seen me naked. “Okay. Thank you.”
“Of course.” The relief on his face is so evident, it’s disheartening. He was expecting me to argue.
The bathroom is small, which works in my favor as I need both the counter and the wall to lean against when I’m getting undressed. I fold Anthony’s hoodie and leave it next to the sink, meaning to put it back on once I’m clean. I turn to look at Anthony, leaned against the door frame and watching me.
“You should just join me,” I tell him, gaze raking over his already half-naked form. He smiles, a true one that makes me feel warmer than I’ve felt all day.
We get in the shower, and Anthony reaches around me to turn on the water. His other hand is braced on my hip, fingers splayed and thumb brushing up and down on my side. He sets the water temperature a degree warmer than is usually comfortable, and I sigh in relief. The parts of me that aren’t under the spray are freezing, and my skin is pebbled with goosebumps. We stand there for a minute, just letting the water run over us. Anthony’s free hand is on my stomach, idly rubbing comforting circles.
When I reach for the soap he pulls my hand back down, grabbing it himself and dousing his hands. Closing my eyes and leaning back into him, I enjoy the smooth glide of his palms over my chest and down my arms. Warning me that I need to stand on my own, he steps back just far enough to do my back. The bathroom, small as it is and with the door closed, is rapidly filling with steam. As the suds are rinsed off of my torso,Anthony props his chin on my shoulder and rests his hands back on my hips.
“I read in the discharge paperwork that steam and humidity are good for treating pneumonia.”
“Mm. I’m sure this is exactly what they had in mind.”
I feel the soft rumble of a laugh against my back, and a soft kiss on my shoulder. “Do you want me to keep going? Or I can just stand here and make sure you don’t fall. No pressure.”
“I wouldn’t mind if you didn’t stop.” I’m inappropriately tired, for someone who’s only been out of bed for thirty minutes and has done nothing but stand here. And, perhaps also inappropriately, I want to keep Anthony’s hands on me for as long as possible.
He makes short work of the bottom half of me, making sure I’m braced against the wall and his shoulder before he kneels down. His touch is impersonal and platonic; he makes no effort to arouse or tease, and just gets the job done. Somehow, this makes the situation feel more intimate, even without it being a prelude to sex. He doesn’t say anything for the rest of the shower, and I don’t either. When we carefully step out and a towel is tossed around my trembling shoulders, the bathroom is so foggy with steam I can barely see him. Drying off and dressing quickly, I’m shaking like a leaf by the time I pull the covers back over myself in bed.
“Soup and meds,” Anthony reminds me, before leaving the bedroom. There’s a small amount of Gatorade left in the bottle on the nightstand, so I finish that off while I’m waiting. Then, because I know it’ll be asked of me, I set about trying to finish the bottle of water as well. When he comes back in, balancing a bowl and several fresh bottles of fluids, he beams at me. “You’re drinking water!”
“Trying to save you the breath.”
He hands me the bowl, which is hot to the touch and feels heavenly on my freezing fingers. Carefully, after checking the instructions for what is probably the dozenth time, he passes me a few pills that I down, with the last of the water. Switching out the empty bottles for the full, he leaves everything within easy reach on the nightstand before coming around the other side of the bed and crawling back under the sheets.
Despite the complete absence of an appetite, I swallow several spoonfuls of soup. It feels good on my throat, if nothing else, and there is the added benefit of being warmed up from the inside out. Beside me, Anthony has sat so close that his bare leg is pressed against my sweatpant-clad one. His left hand is resting casually on my thigh, below the blankets. It all feels so right, pneumonia notwithstanding, having him here like this; I want to revive our conversation from before and reassess. Maybe there’s a solution that will keep that hand on my leg and that smile on his face.
“Nico?”
Taking a break from the soup, I rest the bowl gingerly in my lap. My stomach is starting to pitch uncomfortably, and I really don’t want to throw up. Looking over, I see Anthony relaxed against the headboard, dark eyes on mine and hair nearly black with damp from the shower. He looks masculine, healthy, and so damn beautiful, it’s intolerable. I hand him the soup and watch his throat work as he tips it up to his mouth and swallows some.
“Yeah?”
“You kept that.” Frowning, I follow his line of sight to my dresser and see the drawing I framed.
“Oh, yeah. Of course, I did.” When I look back at him there is a tender expression on his face, and his thumb brushes down the side of my leg. I wonder if I should tell him how much I actually treasure that piece of paper; it’s the first gift I’vereceived in years, and the only one from him. If my house was on fire, it’s the first thing I’d grab on my way out the door.
