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When Neil wakes up that morning, his first thought is ‘what the fuck’. His whole body aches and his head feels stuffed full of cotton, so it’s hard to figure out what’s going on. When he does, he thinks, no more eloquently, ‘fuck’.
Neil hasn’t been sick once since arriving in Palmetto, and he got complacent. He forgot what it’s like and started to take his ability to breathe and move around freely for granted. Never again, he vows, as he struggles to swing his legs over the side of the bed. It feels like his bones have been replaced with lead, body way too heavy and muscles straining to handle the additional burden. The floor beneath his feet is way too cold and he can’t temper the full-body shiver that wracks through him when he stands up, arms wrapping tightly around himself as he leaves the bedroom for the bathroom.
By the time he reaches it, he’s got enough mental capacity to commit to one cause: don’t let the others know. In service of this goal, he scours the cabinets until he finds enough Tylenol to keep the worst pain from affecting him, at least for morning practice, and swallows the pills dry.
The bathroom light is sharp and white and his eyes scream in protest as he forces his eyes fully open, taking in the man opposite him. The man who usually looks way too much like his father, but doesn’t now (and isn’t that just ironic? The one time he can stand to look at himself, he looks absolutely dreadful): his eyes are rimmed with red, his skin pale, gray-tinged and clammy, and his lips are so chapped he can reach up and pull chunks of skin off of them. “Eugh”, he groans, gripping the edge of the sink with his hands. He feels like he’ll faint if he stands up for much longer. When he presses fingertips to his forehead, even he grows concerned at how hot it is. “Okay”, he whispers, lowering his hand and dragging it over his eyes. “Okay. You don’t have time for this, Neil. You have to - just - shower, eat, you’ll be fine.”
With new determination, he strips out of his clothes and steps inside the shower, covering his mouth with a hand when the cold water cloaks him. He needs it, he needs to cool down, but fuck if it isn’t uncomfortable. But it also helps him realize why this is happening.
Palmetto has been caught in a rainstorm for several days, water pouring endlessly from the skies and drenching people in seconds. It’s barely June - barely a month since Riko’s death - barely summer but definitely spring, and that’s why the cold had surprised him when he stepped out from Fox Tower. He’d had enough foresight to bring an umbrella with him so as to not get caught in the rain on his way to class, but the wind broke it within twenty seconds and he’d gotten sopping wet anyway.
And really, he should’ve seen this coming, he now realizes, as he thinks back to spending two hours shivering in a very cool lecture hall, dripping from head to toe, but he hadn’t.
It also reminds him of something else.
“Damn it, Abram, I told you this would happen!” his mother yells, sparing a second to glare at him before focusing back on the road. Curled up in the passenger seat, legs pulled up to his chest, Abram tries to make himself as small of a target as possible.
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry isn’t going to cut it.” The words are sharp and clipped, and Abram loathes to think of facing his mother’s rage head-on, when she isn’t busy behind the wheel of a car. He presses his forehead against the window, cherishing the coolness. He’s sweating, clothes damp with it, since his mother turned the heat all the way up so he could ‘sweat it out’. “How hard is it to not fuck up time and time and time again, Abram?”
“I’m so-”
“Evidently pretty hard”, his mother continues, completely ignoring him. She’s getting herself worked up now, anger fueled by fear of capture, surely fear that Abram won’t be aware enough, fast enough, strong enough to face those threats. “You keep doing this to us. You keep doing this to me. All I’ve ever tried to do is help you, save you, and then you go running into the rain for what? Some homeless girl needs food? We have our own problems!”
Abram remains quiet, not knowing what to say. Apparently, this time, it isn’t the right response. “SAY something, damn you!” his mother roars, reaching over with one hand and grabbing onto his hair. She pulls and pulls, forcing his head back and forth, and he’s beyond dizzy by the time she stops, but she levers a punch at the side of his head, then his shoulder, then his arm. “I’m tired of your bullshit!”
Neil is sitting on the floor of the shower, pressed into the corner with his arms around his legs. He doesn’t remember how he ended up there and he doesn’t know how long it’s been, but he forces himself to believe it’s not important. What is important is getting out and getting dressed before anyone realizes something’s wrong.
One set of clothes, plenty of nose spray, and another Tylenol for good measure later, he’s stepping out of the bathroom and joining Kevin, already in the kitchen, in making breakfast. Neil doesn’t reject Kevin’s offer to share some of his green-kale smoothie today, hoping it’ll help alleviate his ailments (though surely it’s too late at this point), knowing he won’t be able to taste it (which is preferable). Kevin looks surprised, but pleased, and Neil chugs the glass before forcing down two granola bars. More than that, he can’t stomach, so he pulls himself onto the couch with a large glass of water and commits to drinking it all down before they leave.
Andrew, when he leaves the bedroom, looks ready for the day but unhappy about it, as per usual. Neil smiles into his waterglass and makes room when the man goes to join him on the cushions. But here comes the tricky part: he is perfectly aware that he’s contagious, and kissing Andrew is, therefore, off the table. He doesn’t want to get Andrew sick, and he especially doesn’t want to face the man’s displeasure if he were to get sick because of Neil.
“Now look what you’ve done”, Mary mutters, blowing her nose into yet another tissue before throwing it over the edge of the bed. She’s too subdued by the infection to raise her voice and yell, which Abram is almost relieved about.
The motel they’ve booked a room in is small and a few winding roads off from the highway. They got their usual arrangement of one bed, because even when Abram is contagious, Mary won’t let him sleep anywhere but with his back pressed against hers. Unfortunately, that seems to have backfired, because she’s now just as sick as he is, and she has gone to great pains to voice her displeasure.
Sometimes Abram wishes they both had other people to talk to.
“Because of you, we’ll probably get caught”, she declares, burrowing further into the duvet. Abram, on the other side of the bed - as far as he can get, really - can’t fit under the little sliver of duvet she’s afforded him, and he imagines that, too, is punishment. (His scalp still stings. There’s a trail of bruises running up his arm. He ignores this.)
“I’m sorry.”
Mary rolls onto her back and stares at the popcorn ceiling, as if its bumps and shadows contain any form of answer. “If you listened to me, just for once in your life, we wouldn’t have these sorts of problems.”
“I know.”
“Ready for practice?” Kevin asks, and Neil sets down his glass, getting up before he has to see the suspicion in Andrew’s eyes. He can feel that gaze on him already.
The drive to the court is awkward. Neil has to make sure he doesn’t sniff (and has to wipe his nose surreptitiously on one of his armbands, which is gross) and almost chokes trying not to cough, chest protesting uncomfortably. Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to arouse any more suspicion in Andrew and the others have even less of a clue, so he’s doing well so far.
When they reach the court parking lot, Neil waits while the others step out, pretending to tie his shoes. When Andrew’s door slams shut, the last to do so, he coughs, as quietly as he can, out of sight of his teammates, before collecting himself and joining them.
She wasn’t unkind when he got the flu. It was severe, forced him to spend more time in the bathroom than not, but they were relatively safe, already planning to stay in Strasbourg for another few weeks anyway, and she seemed to pity him enough not to yell at him. “It’s not your fault”, she’d murmur, combing through his sweat-damp hair with her fingers. “Those other kids at school got to you. It was inevitable.”
It’s one of few times she’d touch his hair like that. Not to pull, not to punish, but to comfort.
Neil hardly thinks that’s the kind of treatment he’d be afforded now, though. He’s nineteen years old and an orphan, and he’s got to get his shit together. ‘To be a burden is to be dead’ is a mindset he learned over the course of a decade, perhaps even two, and while he knows he’s no longer trapped in an endless life-or-death situation, he will be bringing his team down if he doesn’t give his best effort. That’s why, after struggling to change out in the bathroom and pull his gear on with protesting muscles, he makes sure to put in extra effort getting warmed up, even when all he wants to do is lie down on the floor. He imagines it’d be cold - he’s already sweating through his clothes, can feel droplets at his neck, feels barely-even-there. Once, he reaches a hand up to check that there isn’t a massive clamp squeezing down on his head, but there isn’t, and his helmet fits the way it always has.
“Eugh”, he whines quietly, before getting into position.
Practice is rough. Neil never walks off the court without tingles in his limbs, without feeling simultaneously exhausted and rejuvenated, but this might be more than he can feasibly handle. His entire body feels like his arms did when he first blew them out while practicing with Kevin. One time, he almost stumbles and falls over, barely managing to catch himself, and after that he can physically feel Andrew’s eyes on him.
After yet another stumble, and sharp words from Kevin -
“You can’t do anything right”, Mary grumbles, snatching the shopping bag out of his hands. “I told you we need disinfectant two times. How did you forget?”
Abram, head aching, shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t get us any more disinfectant, does it? Back in with you.”
- Andrew abandons the goal to cross the court, stopping in front of Neil and fixing him with sharp eyes. “What’s wrong with you.”
“Nothing”, Neil denies. The world’s starting to go a bit black at the edges, but he’s been through worse, has driven through two states in a worse state. “Just feeling a bit off today”, he concedes, when denial doesn’t seem to be working. It’s the very antithesis to exaggeration, because for one second he can’t see anything at all, just deep, dark black, but Andrew lets him have it and returns to the goal, Kevin’s whining - as always - the background music to their practice.
It’s twenty minutes later, when Neil can barely focus his eyes at all, that he starts to think he might be in real trouble.
They’re running scrimmages, strikers working to dodge past backliners, and usually Neil would navigate past them like it was really no problem at all, knowing exactly where Aaron was going to move next, what Nicky expected him to do and thus what he wouldn’t be doing. Today, though, he can barely think two seconds ahead, nevermind the physical effort it takes to move swiftly past a mark and not be caught up to. Even more unfortunately, Neil’s been paired with Matt.
He can barely think two seconds ahead, but this doesn’t take much thinking. Matt, 6’4” and over 200 pounds, comes rushing in Neil’s direction and Neil can’t feel his legs.
When he next opens his eyes, he’s looking up at the ceiling, the faces of his teammates framing his vision with concerned frowns and panicked expressions. He can feel the court floor beneath him but the whole world is spinning. Is that just his head? He feels like he’s floating, like there’s really nothing working to keep him stable
“-eil? Neil!” someone calls out, and Neil struggles to focus.
“Wh…”
“Stay down”, Wymack orders him.
Someone works his helmet off his head and then cool, cool pressure lands on his forehead. “Shit!” someone exclaims. “He’s burning up!”
Andrew’s to his right, staring. “Staring”, Neil mumbles, lifting a hand and waving it in Andrew’s direction. Andrew furrows his eyebrows. Was that the wrong thing to say? Neil frowns. “I’m sorry.”
“He’s out of it”, someone states. “Completely out of it.”
“Shit, Neil, I’m so sorry.” That’s got to be Matt. Neil finds his face and makes sure to shake his head.
“No, ‘s fine. I’m fine. I just need to-”
“I thought I told you to stay down?” Wymack asks, and Andrew presses on his shoulders until he’s level with the floor again.
“Sorry.” He’s starting to feel sick, and not because of his illness. Panic is taking over, making him feel even more nauseous, and he closes his eyes, rolls over onto his side and curls up. “I’m sorry.”
“... Neil?”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m-”
“Shut up.” That’s Andrew, he can tell, the only person who can reach through to him when he’s feeling like this. Neil wants to apologise again, doesn’t even know what for, but swallows the word.
“Everyone get off my court”, Wymack demands, and footsteps sound out around him as people begin to file out. Neil twitches, wanting to follow the order, but Andrew keeps a hand pressed to his arm, gripping one of Neil’s hands in his other one.
“Focus on me”, Andrew tells him. “Just focus on me.”
So Neil does. He endures Abby taking his temperature, can’t get his mind to hold on to the number, only knows it makes Wymack curse and Andrew frown. He mumbles assent and lets Andrew carry him away, ends up in an ice bath that shocks him awake enough to start to pay attention to his surroundings again.
Andrew’s sitting on a chair at his side, staring grimly at his face. “Hi”, Neil mumbles.
“I don’t think you understand”, Andrew says, leaning forward. He rests his elbows on his knees and ties his hands together, and Neil’s eyes get stuck on white knuckles. “That when you get sick, you rest.”
“Why start now?” Neil jokes, but it falls flat. He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth and presses his teeth into it. “Sorry.”
“And you don’t apologise either.” Andrew sighs. “What’s up with you?”
Neil shrugs, sinks further into the water. “I’m not -”
When he doesn’t get further than that, doesn’t know how to say it, Andrew attempts to complete his thought. “Used to getting to lie down and do nothing? No, I figured.”
“I thought I could just work through it.”
“See, Neil, that’s the thing: even if you could’ve, you shouldn’t have. What you’ve just done is make it take that much longer for you to recover.”
“At least we don’t have a game coming up”, Neil notes, but that only seems to piss Andrew off.
“You know, junkie, sometimes your obsession is hard to stomach.”
Neil looks down. “I don’t wanna be a burden. I can’t.”
Andrew leans back. “Well, junkie. Out there, right now, is a large group of people incredibly anxious and worried about you. See, if you don’t want to trouble them, you take care of yourself.”
Neil nods. “Okay.”
The ice bath helps a lot more than the shower did, and maybe Andrew’s company does too, giving him the mental fortitude necessary to brave getting out and getting back to the Tower. The Foxes, as Andrew described, tell him how incredibly worried they were and get him to promise never to do that again, but thankfully don’t question him (it probably isn’t too hard to understand).
The Tower promises blankets, and warmth, and comfort, and Neil burrows into all of it. He smiles when Andrew says he’s sticking around, even missing his classes and afternoon practice to take care of Neil (“after your stupid stunt Wymack decided it was necessary, to make sure you don’t die”) and revels in being spoiled maybe just a little. (And only with Andrew.)
Over the course of the evening, after the Foxes return from their last practice, the knocking on their door seems almost neverending. Kevin decides to be helpful and go get it, letting Andrew stay where he is (with Neil’s head on his thighs, reading a book and combing his fingers through Neil’s hair while he half-sleeps) and every time he returns, it’s with yet another gift. Dan handed over a mug of green tea with honey (which Neil managed to get down, and now he’s warm from the inside out), Renee lended him her fluffy blanket the others always fight over on movie night, Matt passed on some cough drops that taste like lemon (they did relieve the itching), and Nicky gives him his concern in the form of spamming Kevin’s phone for constant updates on Neil’s condition.
Despite the symptoms, Neil’s sure he’s never been more comfortable than he is right now. He doubts he’ll ever grow completely used to other people caring about him, might always expect the worst, but he doesn’t fear being weak around these people anymore.
Maybe it’s okay to not be fine all the time.
One day he’ll believe it.