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Keith’s head is pounding, his blood boiling. The covers he kicked off an hour ago lie in a sweaty heap, halfway hanging off of the bed. He's been in bed all day, classes the last thing on his mind right now.
The fan above him spins at max power, and the coolness of the air outside leaves a damp, cold fog on Keith's window. Despite this, his breath comes in short pants and he’s sweating profusely, fever running hot through his blood.
From the base of his neck all the way to his temples, Keith’s head throbs. His lungs ache, and his chest heaves with careful breathing, treading lightly to avoid a vicious coughing fit. He's lying stock still, limbs sprawled, willing the blissfully cool air from the fan to seep into his skin, but it’s to no avail. Briefly, in his feverish haze, he ponders opening the window, but decides against it on the account of he would have to get up in order to open it.
And Keith does not want to get up, even though he's been swimming in his own sweat for hours now, all his clothes save for boxers long since left in a pile on the hardwood floor. He can feel his sheets damp against his back, serving no purpose but to make him hotter still. He thinks about how he needs to change them, but vetoes that on the account of he'd have to get up to do that too.
Two seconds later, Keith's chest feels tight because he wouldn't have to if Lance was here, would he? His eyes feel damp and his face grows hotter. He rolls onto his stomach, pressing his face into his pillow as he's shaken by silent sobs.
I'm alone again.
He's choking on his own tears now, and thick coughs tumble out in the midst of his sobbing. They don't stop, and he's wheezing, breathless, dizzy, the weight on his chest as heavy as the weight on his heart.
Why hasn't Lance come home?
The hacking refuses to subside, every barking cough intensifying the biting pain in his head and the aching throughout his body. Keith feels like he’s been doused in gasoline and set on fire. His face, his chest, his throat, his legs, hell, his whole damn body feels like it's burning.
How did it get this bad?
He's out of it, head spinning and mind reeling, borderline incoherent from the fever. He's still sweating. Everything is too hot and he knows that everything is not alright, but he currently lacks the capacity to do anything other than lie in bed and cry and moan.
Where are you, Lance?
Keith is beginning to drift off, busy with idle thoughts of winter and snow and water and cold (He's forgotten what being cold ever felt like, Will I ever feel it again? he thinks) when he thinks he hears the muted slam of a door. He's at rigid attention now, every muscle in his body hoping for Lance to walk through the bedroom door.
Keith doesn't know how much time has passed, but he knows it's been a while. He’s sure he heard the door, but his fever addled brain can't decide one way or another.
He wants to get up, he really does, because he needs to know if Lance is home.
If Lance is home, why wouldn’t he have checked on me by now?
He’s on his stomach, about to slide out of the bed when he hears footsteps in the hallway.
Unmistakeable footsteps. Keith wants to crawl back into bed but he just can’t find the strength. His knees are on the ground, anchored to the bed solely by arms that feel like jelly. The door opens. His gaze follows the movement and the noise, the figure passing through it merely a blur.
Am I dreaming?
Keith can vaguely make out dark hair and an olive colored jacket, blue eyes coming into focus as the blur moves closer. Lance. Keith’s heart rampaging, hammering against his ribcage.
Is this just the fever?
Lance moves closer, and Keith can see his mouth moving, can hear a jumble of words, but nothing’s making much sense to him. He feels the ghost of a breeze across his forehead, but it’s gone as quickly as it came, the momentary coolness fleeting. He wishes the contact would have lingered longer.
He can see Lance’s mouth moving again. He squints his eyes, but he never was able to read lips. Keith reaches out, but his hands touch nothing, a grab for empty air. Lance is right there, so why can't he touch him?
He hears yelling, Lance shouting at him; he doesn't know why Lance is so angry. It isn't his fault he’s sick. He doesn't know what he’s done and Keith is confused and his world tilts on it's axis again, leaving him reeling.
Why is Lance so angry?
There are hot tears slipping down Keith’s cheeks, salty tears meeting the sweat trickling from his forehead. He doesn't know what he’s done.
He wants Lance to kiss his forehead and give him medicine, to take care of him until he feels like he’s not burning from the inside out. But Lance is yelling at him, sparking a fire in Keith’s gut that could've been extinguished, cooled with a soft touch and gentle words.
He wonders what’s going on, but the cloudy haze in his mind prevents him from feeling anything other than hurt and confusion. He’s too hot and he wishes that he could hear what Lance was saying so he could know what he managed to fuck up this time , but all he hears is angry shouting, growing louder and louder in his ears, all he feels is hard hands shaking his shoulders.
Keith is shaking with sobs, rattling coughs seizing his chest and constricting his throat until he can't breathe, and he waits for the steady hand against his back to help him regain what little control he has left, but it never comes. He’s floundering; he's on his own.
Suddenly, the yelling stops. No hard hands are shaking him. Unmistakeable footsteps. He hears a door slam once, another twice. Lance is gone.
He's alone again.
****
Keith bolts upright in bed, rain now falling in sheets against his window. He can feel sweat dripping down his back, a sheen covering his chest, neck, and arms. His breathing is shaky and labored, chest thick with congestion and heavy with an invisible weight. Tears are still streaming freely down his face, and he doesn't bother wiping them away. He’s not sure when he managed to fall asleep in the first place; all he knows is that he’s glad he woke up.
He reaches to the nightstand next to his bed, fumbling around to grab his phone, and presses the home button to light up the screen. He's got two missed calls from Lance and five unread text messages. Keith lets out a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding, and sends Lance a reply before setting his phone back down.
The dream had felt so real , and upon the realization that it is, in fact, not, Keith feels unimaginable relief. Lance isn't angry at him--he hopes.
He eventually falls back into a fitful sleep, a sleep plagued by an unforgiving headache, a fever that won't seem to break, and a sandpaper-raw throat. But thankfully, Keith thinks, a sleep free of dreams.
The next time Keith wakes up, the sheets around him are no longer soaked with sweat and there's a cold compress on his forehead. An uncapped thermometer is lying next to two pills and a glass of water on the bedside table, and Keith wastes no time downing the pills and half of the water in the glass.
He doesn't see Lance, but he hears water running in the apartment somewhere, and he hears music playing. He hears Lance singing along, hears footsteps moving in time to the rhythm.
Keith is glad. He’s glad he doesn't feel too hot anymore and he's glad he doesn't hear any yelling. He falls asleep again.
This time when Keith wakes up, Lance is sitting upright, asleep behind him. His head is resting on Lance’s chest and the rain is still falling, now beating softly against the window. The fans turns lazy circles above them, no longer whirring at maximum power. Keith feels cool, the feeling in the pit his stomach the good kind of warm.
Lance’s hand is resting near his forehead, like he fell asleep carding his fingers through Keith's dark hair. Keith thinks how glad he is that he got to feel not hot again, and that he never wants to forget how good Lance’s cold fingers feel against his face.