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“Fucking, fuck!” The voice on the other side of the door was frazzled and angry, the sounds of accompanying banging and crashing did little to quell the sense that something was wrong with your best friend. The door swung open and in the doorway stood Javi, shirtless, hair sticking up in all directions, a sheen of sweat on his bare torso.
“Ah, am I interrupting…?” You asked, trying to subtly look around him to see if he had company. You would never admit that the thought always hurt like a bullet flying through your heart. You tried to school your face into something neutral.
“No,” Javi scoffed, running a hand down his hot face, “I’m fucking ill,” his reply was biting but it wasn’t aimed at you, he was pissed off at himself, his body, for daring to be ill when he had assholes to catch. He was a busy man with an important job who didn’t have time for the sniffles.
Javi walked over to the kitchen where a full mug of black coffee was sat on the counter. You took that as an invitation to enter, closing the door behind you before following to sit at the island in the middle.
“Why are you here anyway, bonita?” He asked, sneezing between taking sips of his steaming mug.
“You said you’d drop me off in the city on your way to work,” you chuckled, leaning forward with your arms on the island to smirk at him. He really was ill, he never forgot if he had offered to take you somewhere or pick you up on his way home from work. Javi didn’t hesitate when it came to your safety, he knew the kind of men that walked the streets, knew it was dangerous for a woman to go anywhere on her own.
A deep grumbling sound came from his throat as he mentally berated himself for not remembering, rushing past you to grab a discarded shirt that was meant for the wash basket.
“I’m sorry, I’ll take you now, are you ready?”
“Javi,” you stood from the stool and grabbed the shirt before he could put an arm through, throwing it back on the floor, “you’re not going anywhere,” you insisted as sternly as you could.
Javi frowned, looking to the shirt that was on the floor again, then back to you. You noticed his eyes were red around the edges, goosebumps were appearing on his skin where he was still sweating and as you reached up to place the back of your hand on his forehead your suspicions were confirmed; he had the flu.
“You need to go back to bed,” you crossed your arms over your chest, hoping he wouldn’t fight you on this, but expecting he would.
“I have to go to work,” he countered, although he made no move to do anything about it. You realised he didn’t have the strength to physically fight you on this, which you used to your advantage. You pressed a hand into the middle of his back and pushed him carefully towards his bedroom.
“They will only send you back home so what’s the point,” you reasoned, and to your surprise you had managed to get him into his room. His bed was unmade, the blinds were still shut and a cigarette stub was burning out in the ashtray on the bedside table.
Javi was really feeling it now. His eyes were drooping in the darkness of his room, and his bed looked too inviting to deny. He took his jeans off and climbed into the bed and as soon as his head hit the pillow he could feel himself losing consciousness.
You smiled at the sight, reaching over to pull the covers up to his chin. As you were about to step away his hand shot out and grabbed your wrist, halting your movements.
“Thank you, bonita, I don’t know what I’d do without you” he said, blinking up to look at you so you knew he meant it.
You had to remind yourself he was ill and simply thankful to have someone taking care of him, even if your heart did skip a beat at his words and you felt yourself hoping, wishing this was hinting at Javi’s feelings for you.
You squeezed his hand and tucked it back under the blanket.
“Sleep,” you softly replied, refraining from leaning over and placing a kiss on his forehead. That may be too much for best friends.
When Javi came to a few hours later the covers had been kicked off his bed and the sunlight peaking through the blinds was brighter than before. His head was aching and he smelt of sweat but he had more energy. When he fully woke up he noticed the smell of cooking, making his stomach grumble in anticipation of a home cooked meal. He stood from his bed carefully, not wanting to worsen his headache, and pulled on his jeans.
He entered the kitchen, grinning at the sight of you dancing lazily to the song playing on the radio, stirring a pot of something on the stove. He noted it was the most action that stove had seen in all the time he had been living in the apartment. He leant against the wall and crossed his arms, waiting for you to notice him.
Which you eventually did with a squeal, the spoon you were tasting from clattering to the floor with its contents splashing up your jean covered legs.
“What are you doing up?” You chastised, frowning at his sudden appearance.
“I’m feeling better,” Javi chuckled, taking a seat at the island, watching you clean up the mess before going back to your cooking. “What are you making?”
“I just threw together some vegetables and chicken in a stock,” you shrugged, placing the lid on the pot and joining Javi at the island, “I rang work, said you were taking a sick day. I know how stubborn you are though so I didn’t say for how long.”
“I’ll be back in tomorrow,” Javi mumbled. He looked at you, really looked at you and all you were doing for him, and he felt happy in a way he hadn’t felt since coming to Columbia. He also felt comfortable, as though he could come home to this every night, if only you knew how he felt. He promised to tell you when he had a clearer head and food in his belly.