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Neil presses his forehead against Andrew’s, feeling the feverish heat pass between them like a live wire. Andrew shudders in response and draws the thick blankets around him up to his shoulders. The ocean blue linen of their duvet ripples like the waves with the movement.
Outside, the morning bird chirps at missing traffic. The holiday season is near, and the quiet street Andrew stays on has turned quieter with families off to their vacations and lovers tucked away in their havens.
That was them, supposedly, until Andrew woke up shivering next to Neil’s body.
“You are running a fever,” Neil says, fingers gently combing back Andrew’s bangs, sweaty strands that cling onto his forehead; Andrew’s hair has been getting long and falling into his eyes more often.
“I wonder what clued you in on that,” Andrew says with as much snark as he can muster in his weakened state, but it is mellowed out by the rasp of his voice and the quiet sniffle that betrays him right after. Neil knows Andrew’s frustration is directed at himself rather than at Neil, and forgives him easily for it.
For so long, Andrew has not let himself be weak—not if he has a choice for it. A sickness like this is, to him, a vulnerability that should be fought off valiantly with enough will and nicotine. The years together mean Andrew has long quit nicotine; Neil now wants to show him that he is allowed to rest and recover, that Neil will take care of him.
“I will get you cold and flu tablets and water,” Neil says softly, and presses a chaste kiss to Andrew’s temple. Again, Andrew shudders.
Neil gets up from the bed, tucking the ends of the blanket around Andrew so the chilly air does not sneak in. Winter in Miami is far behind Boston’s cold, but the endless rain has morphed stale air into something damp and biting.
Socked feet pad across the bedroom, slipping out into the living room and the open-plan kitchen right beside it. Daylight drapes itself across the furniture, casting everything in soft amber, unlike their dark bedroom with the curtains drawn closed. There’s a medicine box shoved all the way in at the top of the kitchen cabinets, as if Andrew believes he will never have any need for it. Neil retrieves it with a well-timed tip of his toes, shoulders sagging in relief when he checks and confirms that the medication is at least not expired.
The kettle whistles, and while the water boils, Neil begins a mental list of tasks he needs to do after Andrew has taken the medication. There is the problem of breakfast, which is thankfully fixed by their grocery run the day before; Neil may not be as impressive a cook as Andrew is, but a warm bowl of soup is not an impossible ask of him. A quick check in the refrigerator produces two cold packs, usually reserved for their sport-related injuries; Neil leaves one in the freezer and places the other on the island counter.
With the tablets, a glass of lukewarm water, and the cold pack in hand, Neil returns to Andrew as he has left him, bundled up in the duvet, eyes pressed close to fight away the feverish state that leaves him a touch breathless.
Andrew cracks open an eye when the mattress dips beneath the weight of Neil returning to the bed. “Took you long enough,” he mutters, and Neil has to hide the small, affectionate smile that threatens to tug at the corner of his lips.
“You can admit you missed me,” Neil teases. More seriously, because he knows Andrew takes comfort in knowing what pills he is taking, he says, “I brought you paracetamol. The ibuprofen is stronger, but that’s better taken after you’ve gotten something to eat. And I know you are not a fan of the diclofenac because it makes you especially drowsy.”
He helps Andrew sit up, just enough for him to swallow two tablets and gulp down a mouthful of water in quick succession.
Then Andrew turns to Neil, hazel eyes glinting. Sometimes, when the room is navy dark and the bare light that slips in between curtain lines hits just right, his irises look almost golden. He is sweat-slicked now, pale face blotchy in peach red from the fever. He is, still, impossibly ethereal.
“I missed you,” Andrew rasps, like it is easy, because with them, it is. Then he rests his head against the headboard, eyes slipping close again. His chest rises and falls laboriously through the flu that is warring with his senses. Moments later, he wriggles lower, sinking back fully onto his pillow and blanket.
Neil hums, pressing the cold pack—wrapped in a soft face towel he grabbed from his bedside drawer—to Andrew’s forehead and watches the way Andrew sighs, sounding content with the way the cold pack eases away some of the burning heat. “Does that feel good?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Do you want to go back to sleep?” Neil asks.
Andrew hums. Fingers peek through from under the duvet, in search of skin. He finds it in the crook of Neil’s thigh, one leg folded beneath him.
There is no need for words, hereafter. Neil slips under the duvet with him, head pillowed by matching ocean blue sheets. Then he shuffles closer, letting Andrew have more of him.
When Neil tilts his face to ghost another kiss on Andrew’s jaw, smelling sweat and the distant scent of aftershave, Andrew lets out a soft grumble. “If you keep that up, you will fall sick.”
“You will take care of me,” Neil says, a non-answer.
“You will have brought it upon yourself,” Andrew says, but, despite his words, seeks out Neil’s hand and lets it rest—palm down—on his chest. Neil splays his fingers across Andrew’s ribcage, feeling each inhale and exhale, beautiful reminders of his existence. “I will leave you to suffer.”
“You will not,” Neil says.
A moment passes in comfortable silence. Some time after, so long that Neil nearly forgets the precursor, Andrew makes a non-committal hum. “I will not,” he murmurs, the words said like an afterthought.
Something warm expands in Neil’s own ribs, the oceanbed of his gentle corals blooming as though daylight has come early. Then he scratches away the thought and thinks, life with Andrew means the sunlit waters never leave.
“I will not be able to play exy though, if I really fall sick,” Neil says thoughtfully. He blinks up at the white ceiling, and thinks not of stadium lights but of a starry sky from that one road trip he made with Andrew a few months earlier. “Kevin will be furious,” he snorts. “He may sign me up for a marathon as punishment.”
“Junkie,” Andrew mumbles. “Marathon. You will like it.”
His words are begging to slow to a drawl, hints of the sleepiness that is beginning to draw him in. Neil pats him on the ribcage lightly, feeling the responding hum.
“Maybe. Sounds boring, though,” Neil says. “Now you’re only making me sleepy.”
“Then sleep.”
Around them, the city hums. The morning bird sings. Neil tilts his face slightly to get a better look at Andrew, who has slowly but surely started to drift off to sleep. Later, he will make chicken soup, and they can lie in bed all day or curl up on the couch to rewatch old documentaries, if Andrew feels well enough for it.
For now, the peacefulness that overtakes Andrew’s features is soothing, and as the fever-soaked heat envelops them both into a languid state, Neil dreams of a haven, sunlit.