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Alex wakes up before the sun has risen, stares at the vaulted ceiling of the Molinas’ garage from the air mattress Ray set up in the loft for him, and feels his body.
It’s become something of a routine for him since he and his bandmates came back to life. Being a ghost made him feel like he was floating, sometimes, like a particularly strong gust of wind could make him blow away. He could feel himself and his boys, even if no one else could, but there was always something distant about it, like touch could register but not quite land. It made Alex’s anxiety ratchet up if he thought about it too long, and even the tightest hug from Luke or Reggie didn’t make a difference.
The hug from Willie, though brief, was the closest Alex ever got to feeling corporeal before the Orpheum.
Now that Julie’s brought them all back to life somehow—even Willie—now that Alex needs food and sleep and oxygen, and his heart beats strong in his chest, and his arms bruise when he knocks them against a doorframe by mistake, he likes to take stock every morning of his own physical form, likes to remind himself that this is real. That he’s real, and solid, and something, not just music and air.
It’s only because he’s made himself so aware of his body in the last few months that he notices something today is off.
Half asleep and still getting used to having a body at all, though, he can’t quite figure out what. But his throat feels a little dry, not just like he’s thirsty or just waking up but like it’s on the way to being sore. His lungs protest a little when he breathes, tightening at the top like they’re threatening to turn into the asthmatic wheeze he used to be oh so familiar with. His right nostril is a little stuffy, which is just plain annoying.
It makes sense that coming back to life would mean all his life-related problems came back, too. He’s already been having trouble making himself eat enough… or at all. Of course, he’s going to have to deal with his seasonal allergies again as well.
At least he’s still got his trusty inhaler in his fanny pack.
Getting ready for school takes longer than it usually does. Alex isn’t sure why—it’s not like he didn’t get plenty of sleep last night, he went to bed early so he could get up early like he always does these days—but for some reason, his limbs just feel abnormally heavy today, like after months of life part two, his body’s finally overcompensating for the time it spent as a formless spirit. His nose starts running halfway through pulling his socks on, and he spends so much energy sniffling that he gets distracted and puts both socks on the same foot.
By the time he finally makes it down the loft stairs and out onto the driveway, Luke and Reggie (who both have real beds inside the house, the lucky bastards, because Reggie and Carlos wanted bunk beds together and Alex refused to share a bed with Luke “Sleep is for the weak, there’s music to be made” Patterson and then subsequently lost their fight for the guest room) are already waiting at the top of the garden path for him, dressed for school and bouncing restlessly.
“Hey, there you are!” Reggie greets him, grinning. “Thought we were gonna have to head back in without you. Ray made pancakes!”
The thought of pancakes makes Alex’s stomach turn even more than usual, but he manages a smile and shoulders his schoolbag. “A man after your own heart, Reg.”
His voice comes out strained and croaky. The boys don’t seem to notice, so Alex just clears his throat and chalks it up to having just woken up.
It’s not until a little under an hour later, after Alex has turned down breakfast and not even felt guilty about it because he’s just legitimately not hungry for once, when they’re walking to school with Julie and Flynn, that Alex starts to wonder if something’s wrong.
His nose is still running, even more than it had back in the studio, and his throat is now decidedly sore, no ifs ands or maybes about it. It’s annoying more than anything, but nothing he can’t deal with by swallowing carefully and swiping the cuff of his hoodie under his nose whenever sniffling proves unsuccessful. But then they’re turning off of the Molinas’ street, and Alex stops walking to bury a wet sneeze into his elbow.
“Bless you!” Julie calls politely over her shoulder.
Luke laughs. “Hey, we haven’t heard one of those in a while!”
“We used to call him Sneezy,” Reggie explains, shooting Alex a teasing grin. “You know, like the Dwarf? It was funny cause he’s, like, a million feet tall.”
Alex manages a smile, rolling his eyes at his boys’ antics and brushing away Julie’s concerned frown with a casual, “Hayfever,” but as they keep walking and the conversation turns to the history test Luke promised Julie not to cheat on, a cold rock forms in the pit of Alex’s stomach.
There was a time, back when he was alive the first time around, when he knew his body backwards and forwards, inside and out, because, you know, he’d had to live with it for seventeen years. More than that, though, he knew all the ways his body would be likely to betray him. He could feel an anxiety attack coming from a mile away, could tell the exact moment when a wheeze or an allergic reaction turned worrisome. He knew what to eat and what not to eat and how to deal with the consequences of being really good at avoiding eating, and when he fucked things up for himself, he knew how to fix it.
Now, he’s getting used to all that again, after dying and coming back and spending three months not having a body at all.
Twenty-five years ago, it wouldn’t have taken this long to figure it out. But now that he’s thinking about it, Alex still knows himself. If it were the pollen from the trees in Julie’s backyard giving him trouble, he’d have been sneezing a lot more a lot sooner. His eyes would be itchy and watering. His throat would feel sticky and tight, but it wouldn’t hurt so much when he swallowed.
Which means, it’s not hayfever after all. He’s sick.
Once he’s admitted it to himself, he immediately clamps the thought down and un-admits it. He can’t be sick—he’s got that test today, and two tomorrow, and rehearsal after school for a gig this weekend, and he’s supposed to meet Willie afterwards for date night.
Even more than that, though, he doesn’t want to be sick. He was always sick the last time he was alive—either just his various allergies giving him trouble or because Luke and Reggie would get sick doing something dumb and spread it to him—and it sucked. He hated being stuck at home with his judgmental parents, hated missing out on classes and assignments, hated letting his bandmates down. Not to mention his asthma always got worse when he was sick, when drumming and singing and existing in the natural world already made it bad enough.
This is his second chance—at life, at music, at having a corporeal form. He doesn’t want to waste it by spending a week stuck in bed with the sniffles.
So, he tells himself he’s fine. He wipes his runny nose on his sleeve and breathes through the tightness in his chest and tells himself that no matter what happens today, he’s going to be fine.
Because he has to be.
Alex sets his stuff down at the lunch table and then cups his hands over his mouth and nose and sneezes twice.
“Tissues, Sneezy,” Luke says without even looking up from his song journal, reaching blindly over to tug at the strap of Alex’s pack.
He sniffles and grumbles and takes his seat as he digs through his bag for the last of his tissues (he had three whole travel packs this morning, and now he’s down to three tissues total; it’s been a rough day).
“Bless you, Alex.” Julie rubs his arm comfortingly; it makes him shiver. “Can I ask what you’re allergic to?”
Alex swipes at his nose with a tissue, not wanting to waste it by blowing his nose even though he desperately needs to. “Just about everything,” he says between wet sniffs. “Dust. Cats. Tree pollen, grass pollen, most kinds of flower pollen.”
“Perfume,” Reggie adds cheerily. “That one caused a lot of problems back in the day.”
Alex shudders at the memory. Luke just mutters, “Not like we wanted that mall gig anyway.”
“You poor thing. I might have some Claritin,” Julie offers, starting to rummage through her bag.
“It’s not that bad,” Alex deflects, 'cause the last thing he wants is Julie worrying about him, or any of his friends asking what’s setting off his allergies right now, since the answer is nothing, and there’s no point in taking Julie’s medicine when he’s pretty sure just an over the counter antihistamine’s not gonna cut it. He sniffs again and coughs a little, then nods at Luke and says, “So, new song?” which is always the most effective way to change the subject.
He pokes at his lunch and engages in conversation as best he can, and then when they all leave to head back to class, he stocks up on cafeteria napkins and ducks into the bathroom to blow his nose until his head spins.
By the end of the day, Alex is exhausted, and convincing his friends there’s nothing wrong is getting harder by the minute. Julie frowns at him through the entirety of their shared math class. Luke passes him a box of tissues during their history test. Reggie cautiously asks him if he’s breathing all right after Alex has a coughing fit in the locker room after gym.
Even Flynn, on the walk back to the Molinas’ house, makes a point to remind the group as a whole that no one’s allowed to perform if they have a fever within 24 hours of a gig.
It makes Alex feel guilty, more than anything else, really. Guilty that he’s going to be an inconvenience to his friends now, not just for the next few days until his cold clears up, but forever. With his body back online the way it was the first time he was alive, there’s absolutely no way this is going to be a one time thing. Julie’s going to have to learn to deal with the post-show asthma attacks Sunset Curve took years getting used to. Willie’s going to have to learn to bear with Alex when he doesn’t know if he’s contagious or the pollen count is just high. Ray’s going to have to learn how to live with a sick kid, and Alex isn’t even his kid!
He hates the idea that he’s going to be a burden to everyone he cares about for the rest of his second life, all because his body likes to betray him in ways he can’t control.
“I’ve got some homework to do,” Julie says, too casually, once they reach the studio. “Think we can take a raincheck on rehearsal tonight?”
“But—” Luke starts to protest, but cuts off when Flynn hits him and redirects, “Yeah, a raincheck is probably a good idea. It’ll give me some time to polish off this new song, and we all need our vocal rest every once in a while, right?”
Alex’s stomach hurts. They’re doing this for him, he knows they are—wasting precious practice time, making excuses, all so that he can have an evening off. His first instinct is to lie, to tell them he’s fine, that it’s unnecessary, that they should at least rehearse a song or two since they’ve got a gig coming up. But he’s so tired. And his throat hurts, and his nose hurts, and breathing hurts. He can’t even imagine playing the drums right now.
“I’ve got a date anyway,” he says, forcing a smile, and backs down the driveway until his friends’ worried looks disappear.
After the Orpheum, it took a little while for things to get back to something approaching normal. They had to save Willie’s soul. They had to get that kid Nick unpossessed. They had to send Caleb Covington to the depths of hell, twice.
And then, on top of all that, suddenly there were four ghosts who weren’t exactly ghosts anymore. Ray Molina brought three of them into his house, refurbished his guest room and doubled his grocery budget. They all had to reconcile with one Trevor Wilson—some more willingly than others—because only he had the connections and resources to blackmail the Social Security Administration and get Luke, Alex, and Reggie enrolled at Julie’s school with fake birth certificates and convincing IDs.
It wasn’t always easy, at least not at first. Luke didn’t want to go back to school. Alex didn’t want Ray Molina trying to parent him. Neither of them was very happy about Trevor Wilson coming over for dinner every other Friday night. But Ray insisted kids under 18—even undead ones who were technically closer to 43—had to go to school to live in his house, and Reggie made Luke and Alex promise to try, and when Luke complained a little too loudly, Julie got angrier than they’d ever seen her and told them not to make extra trouble for her dad, so they all kinda sucked it up.
And then, the longer they were alive, the easier it became. Luke doesn’t mind school so much, now that he and Julie can have study dates together. Alex has been trying to get less defensive when Mr. Molina shows him basic kindness. Reggie’s having the time of his life each and every day. Even the Trevor stuff isn’t… so bad.
All this to say: Alex’s life has changed a lot, just in the last few months. The biggest change is that he has a life. But Willie’s been a constant throughout it all, even though he’s going through his own “coming back to life and getting reintegrated in modern society” issues.
A lot of their ghostliness has faded, too, the longer they’ve been alive again. Technically, they can still poof—it just takes a lot of concentration. Concentration Alex can only sort of muster when he feels so awful, but after three tries and two and a half wrong destinations, he manages to appear on the bench where he and Willie had their first full conversation. He lands hard on a thankfully unoccupied section of the bench, invisible to lifers (cause that’s something they can control now) but feeling so very solid. Too solid. All his limbs feel like they weigh a million pounds. His head hurts. He kinda wants to fall asleep right there and wake up a ghost again, where at least he won’t feel so… much.
But then Willie poofs in right in front of him, and Alex forgets all his woes, if only for a moment. Willie grins at him, kind and carefree; it takes Alex’s breath away, makes him almost dizzy before he drags in a raspy breath.
“Hey,” he huffs, mustering up a smile. “I missed you.”
“Missed you, too, hotdog,” Willie says softly, concern flickering across their expression and dimming their bright smile. “You’re early, I thought you had rehearsal after school.”
“Canceled,” Alex says, and pats the bench seat next to him. “More time for us.”
Willie’s smile widens again, and he obediently hops onto the bench, balancing on the balls of his feet as they wrap their arms around Alex and pull him in tight. An involuntary sound of relief escapes Alex’s throat; he leans into Willie’s hold, relishing in every inch of them pressed against him even as it makes his skin sting.
“Hey,” Willie murmurs, and the concern is sharp in their voice now. “Are you okay, Lex? Your… breathing feels weird.”
Alex huffs out an exhausted sigh, squeezing his eyes shut against the threat of tears. Of course Willie would notice right away, can probably feel the stuttered rise and fall of Alex’s chest against theirs, can hear the wheeze that Alex can’t deny has been worsening all day. But if Willie knows something’s wrong, then Alex can’t get away with pretending anymore. If Willie knows he’s sick… Alex can’t keep convincing himself he doesn’t have to stay away.
He swallows thickly, wincing as his throat stings, and slowly sits up out of Willie’s embrace. “Yeah,” he croaks, ducking his head and twisting his hands together in his lap. “I’m not feeling too hot. But it’s fine. I can’t be sick.”
Willie’s quiet a moment, then carefully asks, “Can’t you? I mean, I won’t pretend to understand how our whole coming back to life thing works, but… I’m pretty sure your physiology is back to that of a regular lifer. That should go for your immune system, too.”
“No, that’s not what I—” Alex shuts his mouth with a click, rubbing absently at his chest; it’s starting to ache a little. “I just. I don’t have time to be sick right now. I don’t want to be.”
“I’m not sure that’s how it works, babe.”
He’s sure they mean it to be comforting, but that doesn’t stop more tears from springing to Alex’s eyes. He drags in a shaky breath and admits, “Fine, I… I think I’m just… coming down with something, sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?” Willie leans closer, brushing tears off Alex’s cheek with his thumb so that Alex has no choice but to meet their gaze. “My poor love, you could’ve told me you were sick. We’d have rescheduled.”
“But I didn’t want to,” Alex says, too harshly, and then sucks in a ragged breath. “I just—I hate being sick, I don’t want to—to ruin things, or—and everyone keeps looking at me—”
“Hey, hey!” Willie shushes him, brushing his hair out of his face. Their hand pauses, and then presses more firmly to Alex’s forehead. “Oh, Lex, baby, you feel really warm. Let me take you home, okay? You just keep breathing, you’re okay, my love.”
“I’m—I’m fine—” Alex gasps out, but he can’t deny the more tears spill down his cheeks, the tighter his chest gets, until one breath comes out an airless wheeze and the next breath doesn’t come at all.
Twenty-five years ago, he’d be able to deal with this without panicking. He used to get asthma attacks all the time—after drumming, after gym class, after the bubbly cheerleaders looking for a band to play their flashmob at the mall tried to pay them in advance in free perfume samples. But it’s been a long time since he’s had one—in fact, his last one wasn’t even bad, just needed a quick puff or two of his inhaler after the Orpheum soundcheck in ‘95—and he forgot how scary they are, how utterly convinced he gets that he can’t breathe, that he’s going to suffocate and die, right there on a bench in the middle of downtown L.A.
He doesn’t feel Willie rooting around in his fanny pack, doesn’t see them take his inhaler out and shake it, but when he feels the canister being pressed to his lips, he knows how to grasp for the dispenser and suck in a breath. The medicine coats the back of his throat, sickly sweet, but the fist around his lungs doesn’t loosen its grip, and the wheeze becomes a whistle. He can feel himself getting light-headed as not enough oxygen gets to his brain. He presses a hand to his sternum, tries to drag in another shallow breath. It catches in his throat, and he coughs instead, harsh, dry coughs that tumble out of him until he can’t stop.
“Alex. Alex, baby, come on, one more,” Willie’s voice says from somewhere to Alex’s left, and something guides his hand, still holding the inhaler, back to his mouth for another puff. Somehow, Alex manages to stop coughing long enough to take the medicine in, but his chest burns as he holds the breath, and when he gasps it out again, he feels no less breathless. He doubles over, coughing again, pressing a hand into his chest so hard it hurts. Almost right away, something pulls him back up again, hands on his shoulders and back dragging him upright. “Sit up, gorgeous, you’re okay, you gotta breathe. If you’re coughing, you’re moving air, but not enough, come on.”
Alex tries. God, does Alex try. He shakes the inhaler again with thick, heavy fingers and takes a third puff, but this one doesn’t do any more good than the other two did. His vision starts to swim. He can just make out his nail beds turning blue.
Distantly, he recognizes Willie cursing under their breath, muttering, come on, come on, why isn’t this working, taking the inhaler out of Alex’s clumsy hand and then cursing again. “Alex, honey, this inhaler expired in 1996.”
Oh. Shit. Alex didn’t even think about that. That is, arguably, probably… bad. Really, really bad.
“I’m gonna try something,” Willie says. “I’m sorry.”
Before Alex can even start to figure out what that’s supposed to mean, Willie grabs his hand, wraps their other arm around Alex’s shoulders, and Alex feels the familiar tug in his gut that means he’s about to be pulled through the ghost-time continuum.
In other words, Willie poofs out, dragging Alex with him, and the action is so surprising that it startles air into Alex’s lungs. He lands hard on his back, rolls over and coughs, but he can feel the air moving now, can feel his lungs opening up and letting oxygen flow in and out with every shuddered gasp.
He sits up and coughs into his knees, drags in one last desperate breath, and only then registers two panicked voices circling around him.
“Alex! Oh my—”
“Willie? Is he okay?”
“Stay back, nena, don’t crowd him, it’s all right. Alex? Can you hear me?”
“Yes,” Alex groans, his voice a mangled rasp, but he doesn’t dare raise his head, because he doesn’t think he can bear to face the sea of concerned expressions he knows will be there waiting for him.
A hand lands feather-light on his back—too broad and weathered to be anyone but Ray’s—and a soft, kind voice says, “What happened?”
Alex has never before been so grateful that the Molinas can see and hear Willie now, because Alex doesn’t think he has it in him to respond. “He was having an asthma attack,” Willie explains, from somewhere off to Alex’s right. “I figured best case, poofing would, like, kickstart his lungs somehow, and worst case, you’d be better suited to take him to the hospital.”
Ray hums disapprovingly, like neither of those options particularly appeals to him, and his hand moves from Alex’s back to his hair, gently guiding his head up with warm, inviting strokes. “Alex, honey… Did I know you had asthma? Why don’t you have an inhaler?”
“I… do.” Alex reluctantly lifts his head all the way, wincing as he’s met with Ray crouched on the floor at his side, his eyes wide and worried, while Julie hovers nervously behind him. “It’s just…”
“Twenty-five years old,” Willie supplies from the other side of the room, his voice unnaturally small. “And apparently therefore ineffective.”
“Oh, Alex.” Julie sounds so sympathetic, so sad and scared, it makes Alex’s heart hurt. She approaches slowly, drops to her knees about a foot in front of him and reaches over to take his hand. Immediately, she frowns and reaches for his forehead instead, brushing his hair back to press her palm to his skin. Her hand is nice and cool; Alex closes his eyes, unable to keep from leaning into it, but Julie recoils, hissing. “Oh, Dad, he’s burning up!”
“He is?” Julie’s hand is replaced with Ray’s, and Alex lets out a little involuntary whimper. “Ay, niño, sí,” Ray whispers. “How long have you been running a fever?”
“He was already hot when we met up, but that was less than half an hour ago,” Willie says. “He said he’s been sick. You guys didn’t know?”
“No.” Julie looks stricken; she’s still got one hand clutched in Alex’s and the other tangled in his bangs. “Alex, why didn’t you say anything? You looked awful all day, but… you told me it was just allergies.”
He can’t stand to look at her. She must be angry with him, or at the very least disappointed, and he doesn’t know what to say. She’s right, after all. He lied to her! He lied to all his friends, and the fact that they’d all kinda figured him out by the end of the day doesn’t make it any better that he told them he was fine when he’s very much decidedly not.
He just… didn’t want to have to go through all this again. He didn’t want this to be his life anymore.
He buries his face in his knees, ducking away from Julie’s touch, and coughs, more to avoid talking than anything. It sounds wetter than before, though it all feels about the same to Alex, and a bit of a wheeze returns to his battered lungs.
“Julie, baby,” Ray says, calmly but urgently. “Vete al cajón en mi baño y tráeme tu inhalador.”
Alex can practically hear Julie’s frown. “But, Dad, it’s gotta be—”
“Tengo uno nuevo,” Ray interrupts. “Quickly, go.”
Julie’s footsteps disappear up the stairs, but her presence isn’t missed for long. Alex feels another body take her place, pressing up against his from behind, a chin resting on his shoulder, hands clasped around his chest. It should be embarrassing, since as far as Alex knows, Ray’s still sitting right there, but… he’s so tired. And it’s so easy to lean back into Willie’s hold and just breathe.
And when Julie returns and presses an inhaler into Alex’s hand, it’s easy to shake it and breathe in the medicine, too. This time, he can feel it working, and he relaxes for the first time all day.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, a full dose later, when his breathing has truly steadied. He reluctantly opens his eyes, and Ray and Julie are still sitting on the floor in front of him, looking worried but not angry. “I didn’t wanna be sick.”
“Mijo, you know that’s not your fault,” Ray says, and Willie holds Alex a little tighter in agreement. “I wish you’d told me. You didn’t have to go to school today if you weren’t feeling well.”
This leaves Alex speechless. He’s known for a while now that Ray Molina has quite a different approach to parenting than Alex’s own parents’—just the fact that Ray took in three undead strangers at all was proof enough of that—but he still manages to surprise Alex almost daily with his kindness.
Alex’s parents never would’ve let him stay home from school because of a scratchy throat and a case of the sniffles. They would’ve groaned and rolled their eyes and called Alex dramatic if he came home complaining that his temperature was high and his asthma bad. They never would’ve looked at him with the care and affection that Ray’s giving him now—not after he came out to them, anyway. And here he is, his boyfriend’s arms wrapped around him, and Ray’s telling him he didn’t do anything wrong.
It sort of makes Alex want to cry again, but he’s worried he doesn’t have the air for it.
“Julie, go tell the boys what happened,” Ray says when it becomes clear Alex isn’t going to respond. “And then put fresh sheets on my bed; Alex can sleep there tonight.”
“What? No!” Alex protests immediately, straining to sit up straighter.
“Actually, sir—” Willie cuts in before Alex can fight too hard. “I was thinking I’d take Alex back to my place? If you wouldn’t mind loaning us some supplies, that is… That way, he’s less likely to get anyone here sick, I know there’s a lot of you.”
Alex’s chest threatens to tighten again, this time with guilt, but he forces a deep breath. Willie’s right—as much as Alex doesn’t want to take Ray’s bed from him, he can’t exactly keep his makeshift bed in the studio loft unless he wants to spread his germs everywhere. Assuming he hasn’t infected Luke and Reggie already. Julie and Flynn and Carlos, too.
God, he feels like a terrible person.
“Julie?” Ray prompts again, and she leans forward to kiss Alex on the forehead before getting to her feet.
“I’ll put together a First Aid kit for you,” she tells Willie, “and I’ll update the guys. It’s okay, Alex,” she adds, drawing his gaze up to her. There’s no pretense in her expression, no hidden anger or disappointment. It’s more reassuring than it probably should be—Alex may be slow to trust, but Julie’s a terrible liar. If she didn’t mean exactly what she said, he’d know. She gives him a small smile. “No one’s upset with you. We just want you to feel better.”
Alex nods, drops his chin onto his knees, feels Willie’s lips press to his jaw from behind.
“Call if you need anything,” Ray adds, pushing himself to his feet with a suppressed groan. “Alex, sweetie, keep that inhaler, and feel better, okay? I’ll keep a bed ready for you if you want it, whenever you’re ready to come home. And I’ll make some soup for dinner, I’ll send someone to bring it over to you later tonight.”
Alex nods again, even as his stomach protests the idea. He doesn’t remember if he actually ended up eating anything today, and that… seems like probably a bad thing. He can surely manage some of Ray’s soup at least.
“Come on, baby,” Willie says softly once Ray and Julie are both out of the room. They help Alex to his feet with gentle hands, and Alex lets himself be manhandled for once, too tired to insist he can get up on his own. “Let’s get you home and into bed, and then I’ll poof back to get the stuff from Julie.”
Alex holds tight onto the inhaler still clutched in his hand—glancing down at it, he can see that it’s smaller than the one he’s used to, its expiration date another few months away, with the name Julie Molina on the prescription label. He didn’t know Julie had asthma.
“Can you poof or do you need my help?” Willie asks, and Alex realizes he hasn’t moved.
“Um… I don’t—”
“I got you, it’s okay.” Willie wraps an arm around Alex’s waist, and before Alex can even consider trying to help, Willie’s tugging them both through space.
They appear in the little studio apartment Willie’s been renting since being brought back to life, with the money they make at a skate shop by the beach and a little help from Ray. Alex has only been there a handful of times—usually, Willie prefers to hold their dates out in the world somewhere, and Ray has a rule about sleepovers that apparently doesn’t apply when Alex is feverish—but being there always makes Alex breathe a little easier anyway. It’s cozy. It feels like Willie, all paint-splattered and colorful and fun. It feels like home.
“I’ll be right back,” Willie promises once he’s gotten Alex settled in their double bed under a soft, wool blanket.
Alex barely hears him, his eyes already falling closed. He curls up onto his side, holding Julie’s inhaler to his chest like some kind of medicinal teddy bear, and falls asleep to the sound of Willie humming softly on their way out the door.
When Alex wakes up, he feels less shivery and achy, but he’s drenched in sweat and his nose is completely blocked with congestion. He groans, and then coughs, rolling over to press his face into the pillow, even though it completely cuts off his already limited ability to breathe.
Gentle hands tangle in his hair, guiding him onto his back. Soft tissues press to his nose, and Alex doesn’t think to question it, just blows until some of the thick congestion in his head loosens enough for him to get some air in through his nose.
“There we go,” a quiet voice says.
Alex cracks an eye open with an annoying amount of difficulty. He’s not sure what he expected, but of course it’s just Willie, knelt over him on the bed, soft and pretty like always, a tiny smile painting their lips like one of their brushstrokes. Alex blinks, and all his memories come flooding back to him. It feels impossible that he actually went to school today; he sort of feels like he’s been hit by a bus.
“How long was I out?” he croaks, scrubbing a lazy hand over his face.
“Just a few hours,” Willie assures him. “You woke up for a bit to eat some soup and take some medicine, do you remember?”
Alex hums noncommittally. Everything feels a little hazy still; he thought that memory might have been a dream. He’s not entirely convinced he’s not dreaming now. “Time is it?”
“Eight something.” Willie disappears from view, but before Alex can wonder, he’s back, slipping under the covers to lie on their side next to Alex. “How are you feeling, beautiful? You can go back to sleep if you like.”
Alex is, unfortunately, lucid enough to be embarrassed by Willie’s habit for pet names. He blushes all the way down to his belly button and prays he can blame it on the fever if Willie notices. “‘Mokay,” he murmurs, probably unconvincingly considering he sneezes into the blanket immediately afterward. “Sick,” he amends with a sniff.
“No kidding.” Willie leans in close to press a light kiss to Alex’s flushed cheek. “Let’s go back to sleep, okay, hot dog? You’ll feel so much better in the morning.”
Alex hums, but allows himself to snuggle further down into the sheets, rolling onto his side so that his forehead just presses to Willie’s. “Shouldn’t be here,” he can’t help muttering. “Gonna get you sick.”
“I’ve got a strong constitution,” Willie promises. “If my being here makes you feel better, then wild antelopes couldn’t drag me away.”
Alex frowns. “Horses.”
“Huh?”
“The… phrase. Saying. Think it’s wild horses.”
“Eh, I’ve heard it both ways.”
Alex bites back a laugh, and then coughs into his pillow. “This is how it’s gonna be now. You know that, right?”
Willie’s face is too kind, too understanding for what Alex is about to put them through. “What is?”
“This.” Alex sniffs and scrubs his wrist under his nose to accentuate his point. “Me snotting all over your bed and scaring you half to death when my lungs crap out. This is how it was, the first time around, and this is how it’s going to be. My life. If you want to be with me, you’re gonna have to learn to deal with it. I’m sorry, I know it sucks.”
“Oh, honey.” Willie’s hand finds its way out of the tangle of covers to slip into Alex’s. “The only thing that sucks about this situation is that you don’t feel well. I love you, and I want nothing more than to be with you. Through ups and downs, in sickness and health. Whatever you need, whenever and as often as you need it. I’ve got you, hot dog. If you’ll have me.”
Alex closes his eyes, relishing in the warmth of Willie’s words and Willie’s presence and Willie’s love. He takes a deep breath, and feels his body, and realizes—as shitty as he feels, still—there is nowhere else he’d rather be.