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“Unfortunately, that’s likely to happen, particularly in severe cases. It sounds as though you’re doing well and following all the instructions, so keep that up and continue to push those fluids.” I nod, even though she can’t see me. “I don’t think he needs to come back just yet, but watch him closely today and check his temperature every couple of hours. I want you to call back in this evening and we’ll reassess, okay?”
“Okay. Okay. I can do that.”
“No need to worry, Mr. Lawson. A little regression is a normal part of the healing process.”
I’d prefer it if the healing process would hurry up a little bit. “Right. Thank you.”
Taking the broth and a few more bottles of Gatorade, I walk back upstairs. Pausing in the doorway, I look at Nico, asleep on his back and breathing harshly enough that I can easily hear it from the doorway. I feel like the worst sort of person when I wake him up and practically force feed him. It’s clear from his expression that he’s not hungry and that it hurts to do so. I ask him to drink the broth anyway, and watch, miserably,as he does. He falls back asleep within minutes of laying back down; I touch my fingers lightly to his head, noting the warm, clammy feel of his skin and wishing there was something I could do about it.
Stepping back into the hallway and closing the door, I call Corwin. He picks up quickly, and the background noise of something frying in a pan sets my stomach growling.
“Lawson, hey, how is everything going?”
“Not great. He’s got a high fever again this morning.” I give him the cliff notes version of what I told the doctor, and then tell him what she said as well. He listens, quietly, and then hits the nail right on the head.
“Sounds like it might not be a good idea for him to be alone long.”
“We’ve got video before practice today, which means we’re probably looking at four hours, minimum. Not to mention drive time.” Anxious, I rub a hand over my chest. “He’d be alone for at least six hours, which means he’d be in charge of taking the antibiotics and the inhaler, and drinking something, and—."
“Lawson,” Corwin interrupts, and I stop to take a breath. “You can miss practice, you know. That’s allowed.”
“Yeah, but then I’ll be a scratch for the game. And it’s against Philly.”
“I know. We need you for that game,” Corwin agrees. He’s silent for a long moment, evidently thinking hard. “How about this. I’ll see if Nigel can go over and check on him.”
“What? No, he’s busy, isn’t he?”
“Yeah, but he’s got a little flexibility in his schedule these days. It’s possible for him to spare a couple hours. It can’t hurt to ask.” He muffles the mic on his phone and calls out for his partner, before coming back to me. “Do you think he’d be okay with Nigel coming over and checking in?”
The ‘he’ in this scenario is obviously Nico, who waited until he was knocking on death’s door before calling me and asking for help. He might be too sick to care, or he might be uncomfortable with a complete stranger seeing him like this. I don’t have to bother waking him up to ask.
“He wouldn’t be okay with it.” I crack the door open and peek in. Nico’s asleep, and still breathing. Closing it silently, I lean back against the wall and close my eyes. “This is awful, how do people function when…”
When someone they love is sick.Shoving the rest of that sentence back where it belongs, I bang my head lightly against the wall. I can tell Corwin heard it anyway, by the tone of his voice.
“Just do the best you can. Miss today and we’ll regroup tomorrow. I’ll talk to Coach, alright? We’ve all had to handle family matters during the season; you’re not the first person to miss some time.”
“You’ve never missed a practice since the day you signed, Cor, and you know it.”
He chuckles—barely audible over the sound of breakfast frying in the background. “Well, I can promise that would change in a heartbeat if something happened to Nigel and I needed to be home.”
I wait in the hallway for a couple seconds after hanging up with Corwin before going back into Nico’s bedroom. He’s dead asleep, mouth open as he tries to breathe and sweat dotting his brow. At a loss of what else to do, l crawl back into the bed beside him and pull him into my arms. He does so bonelessly, muttering something incoherent under his breath. Brushing my fingers gently through his hair, I listen to his breathing, monitor his temperature, and sit there thinking about what I’m going to say to him when he can keep his eyes open long enough to hear it.
???
His fever breaks around three o’clock that afternoon. He asks to get up and walk around, and then nearly falls over when he tries. Pale and sweaty, and starting to get annoyed with the state of things, he sits on the side of the bed and glowers. It’s the most Nico-like expression I’ve seen from him since picking him up from the hospital, and so welcome that I could cheer. When he tries to start an argument with me, I’ll know he’s completely back to normal.
“What time is it?” He asks, pushing a hand through his sweaty hair and grimacing.
“Almost four in the afternoon.”
Scrunching up his face, he tries to get his fatigued mind to perform basic mathematics. He gets there eventually, looking at me with wide, glassy green eyes. “Wait a second, you never left, did you? What about practice? I thought…”
I’ve pulled the chair back over, since he seems content for now to be sitting on the side of the bed. “I didn’t go.”
“Anthony.” He sounds exasperated and a touch guilty.
“Don’t bother feeling bad about it, because I don’t. I can miss two days and the world won’t end.”
