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S.Q. could not recall many times when he had been well and truly sick. The island had been so contained, his days so sanitized, that there was very little risk of catching anything. But there were of course the rare occasion in the cold days of the autumn and winter in which SQ would become so enthralled in his artwork he would spend hours outside without a proper coat. He would toddle back into his father’s office, shivering, nose running, cheeks flushed. His father, on these occasions, would heave a sigh as though this were a great inconvenience. He would tell S.Q. to go to his room, to sleep it off and not bother him unless it were absolutely necessary. He could recall only one time his father had cared for him when he was ill. The memories were hazy with his sickness and he had been very young. But his father had tucked him into his bed. He had kissed his forehead and told him to rest. Though he had been only seven, he remembered years later. But aside from his father’s odd bouts of fatherly affections, his sick days had been spent out of the way of others. So when he woke early Sunday morning, cheeks hot and body aching, he vowed it to himself to remain passive in the household activities.
He heard the chatter and commotion of the house in the early morning. He groaned and pulled his pillow over his head as his door creaked open. He felt as though someone had taken a garden stone and knocked him on the head. Achiness spread from the back of his head to the front and into his eyes. The creak of the old door hinges sounded like the blow of a train whistle. His uncle’s voice was not quite so loud, but his head throbbed nonetheless.
“Good morning, my dear,” he said, and S.Q. felt the bed shift with new weight on the mattress. He removed the pillow from his head and winced at the morning light pouring in through the window. His uncle smiled at him and brushed his bangs from his face. The kind smile on his face dissolved into a worried frown. “Are you alright? You’re rather warm.” S.Q. sighed deeply and sat up, ignoring how dizzy it made him feel.
“I’ll be fine,” he said, “I’m always a little warm in the morning.” His uncle looked doubtful, but he didn’t argue with him further, he just nodded and stood, holding out his hand for S.Q.
The rest of the house was much louder than S.Q.’s room and it made his head pound. Kate waved to him as he entered, she was sitting beside Milligan, a bowl of cereal on the table in front of her. He managed a smile and went to sit on her other side. Breakfast passed as it usually did. The others talked and laughed and shared stories. And throughout it all, S.Q. sat quietly with his cereal, content to listen as best he could. Though it was hard to truly focus on anything the others were saying, for his head hurt very much, and just doing as much as turning his head made his vision swim and his stomach lurch. His headache had only gotten worse, he felt rather lightheaded, and his body was so fatigued and shook so much that he had trouble lifting his spoon. Finally, when S.Q. dropped the aforementioned spoon, getting a splash of milk and cheerios on the tablecloth, his uncle spoke up.
“S.Q.,” he said, “if you aren’t feeling well, you are more than welcome to go and lay down,” the idea of resting did sound rather inviting. His tired body ached to be back in the warm embrace of his soft plaid blanket and squishy green pillows. He nodded (and regretted it), then stood. He pushed his chair back as he rose. Apparently, this was the wrong thing to do. His head swam so suddenly that his vision went white. He swayed on his feet for one moment, then two, then his legs went out from under him. Thankfully, and large in part due to this being a common occurrence with an entirely different person, the other residents of the Benedict household had quick reflexes. He was spared a rather nasty bruise thanks to Kate, who had caught on to his swaying and rather quickly, as she was in all things, sprung up to catch him. He felt himself be lowered gently to the ground and heard the commotion and concern of the others who had watched him tumble. He was aware enough to understand that he was on the floor, but not quite enough to be embarrassed about it. He squeezed his eyes shut against the ceiling light. He felt a hand pressed against his forehead and several concerned, overlapping voices, the most prominent being his uncles. Somewhere in the back of his head, he realized he should have felt guilty about worrying everyone, but his head was swimming too much to worry at that moment.
“Rhonda,” he heard his uncle say “could you please fetch a glass of water? He may be dehydrated,” the hand left his forehead, and he heard another voice.
“He’s burning up,” Number Two said. He frowned softly, just aware enough to remember that that wasn’t a good thing. He opened his mouth to speak, but all that came out was a weak, incoherent mumble. “Oh, he’s waking up.” He blinked and opened his eyes, squinting at the light. The room began to come back into focus, his head still pounded, but he didn’t feel quite so dizzy anymore. Number Two, Mr. Benedict, and Milligan were the first faces he noticed. Standing behind them were Ms. Perumal and Rhonda, who was holding a glass of water. They all brightened when he stoppped squinting so hard at the light. Rhonda breathed a sigh of relief and pressed her hand against her chest as though her heart might have leaped from it. His uncle looked equally relieved. Milligan helped him sit up. He took a look around at the rest of the kitchen. The other kids were gathered in the entryway, presumably having been told to give the adults space while they dealt with him. His mind finally started to catch up with him, and he remembered himself.
The adults were all looking at him with concern. The were kids were as well, but there was the unmistakable tinge of curiosity and confusion amongst them. He felt his face warm further than it already had. “S.Q.,” his uncle said, “are you alright? You gave us all quite a scare. I daresay we’re quite used to collapses, though certainly not from you,” his uncle reached to brush his hair away and pressed the back of his hand against S.Q.’s forehead. He shrugged, for lack of wanting to explain himself. Number Two gave him a stern look. He bit the inside of his cheek.
“I’m not sure. I felt fine yesterday.” His uncle’s frown deepened and he felt guilt stir in his chest. He was making a deal out of nothing. He was probably fine. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” Rhonda sighed and came to kneel beside him. She handed him the glass of water and he took it gratefully. She placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, we’re just worried. Now, I think a comfy resting place and a cold pack is in order, eh?” S.Q. nodded wordlessly. Milligan wrapped an arm around him and pulled him (gently) to his feet. S.Q.’s vision swam again, viciously and suddenly, and he nearly collapsed back to the floor. All the adults startled and tensed, preparing to catch him. Milligan got to it first. He scooped his other arm under S.Q.’s legs and tightened the one already around his shoulder. S.Q. was much too dizzy to be embarrassed about being carried. Besides, it felt nice. The weight being taken off of his feet, strong arms around him. He tucked his arms close to his chest and leaned his head against Milligan’s shoulder. He tried to remember the last time he had been carried, he must have been very young, possibly before he could really walk on his own...
“Thanks, Dad,” he mumbled, already half-asleep. His eyes were closed before he could catch the startled expression on Milligan’s face.
When he woke, he was in his bedroom. His head was still aching and his vision continued to swim, making him feel nauseous. He took a moment to process his surroundings. Despite his bleariness, he managed to make note of a few things. He was in his bed, of course. Something cold was pressed against his forehead. A blanket was is draped over him. He turned his head, despite the achiness, and saw a cup of water sitting on the bedside table, along with a small bowl of apple slices. He remembered how hungry he was, having not finished his breakfast. The cup was covered in condensation, dripping down onto a plastic coaster. His father was so particular about that, wasn’t he? He smiled at the thought. He heard voices, just outside the door.
“...always warm in the morning,” it was his father’s voice. It must have been. He sounded tired. “I should have let him rest.”
“No,” came a woman’s voice, and S.Q. blinked. He began to come to and observe his surroundings again. Carefully this time. That had not been his father’s voice, but his uncle’s. The walls of his room were green, the blanket was soft and plaid. This was not the island. It was stonetown, Mr. Benedict’s house. The woman speaking was Number Two. “I see where this is going,” she said, “you can’t blame yourself, you couldn’t have seen this coming.” He heard his uncle’s tired sigh, and he could picture the exhausted but grateful look towards Number Two.
“I believe,” came Milligan’s voice, “that a visit to the doctor’s office should be added to our list of things to do.” S.Q.’s heart picked up pace. It wasn’t that he was scared of doctors, per se. But his father had not had many professional doctors. If a student was terribly ill or had broken a bone he would call on one, but for the most part, there weren’t any on the island. And always they were curt and distant, doing their job and then carrying on. Doctors were unfamiliar. So, as most unfamiliar things do, they felt intimidating. He was certain his uncle would never put him in a dangerous situation. But that did not stop him from fretting. He heard a hum of agreement, then Rhonda spoke.
“I know this is not a pleasant prospect, but I think we need to consider the idea that S.Q. may be dealing with some health conditions that his father did not attend to as he should have. Even before this, he has been subdued and tired all the time.” There was a long, uncomfortable silence following Rhonda’s statement. It was a heavy, sullen silence, broken only by sighs and the awkward shuffling of feet. He closed his eyes again, the curtains were not closed, and the sun outside was making his head hurt.
“You’re right, Rhonda. Entirely right.” His uncle finally said, his voice sad as though he carried every bit of responsibility for his brother’s actions. Perhaps, he was. If only subconsciously. “We cannot trust that my brother has handled any medical issues as he should have. We- we cannot trust that he has done even the most basic aspects of parenting his son.” His stomach turned. He wasn’t sure how to feel. He knew, realistically, that this was true, but it was a bitter pill to swallow. It was a hard thing to understand, his childhood, which had seemed so idyllic to him when he lived it. Large in part because he had nothing to compare it to. When he’d come to Mr. Benedict’s house it had been rather jarring. Sometimes he would say something about his father, something seemingly innocuous, and they would all give him such heartbroken looks that he didn’t know what to do with himself. It seemed everyone could see the tragedy of his childhood but himself. But observing it now he could see what he could not when he was younger. His newfound insight did not make it easier to understand, and he still ached for the familiar. Quietly, of course, where he was sure his melancholy would not disturb anyone.
He was broken from his thoughts by the back of a hand resting against his cheek, presumably to check his temperature once again. “Hello, my dear,” his uncle said, his voice nurturing. He smiled when S.Q. opened his eyes “did you have a good rest?” He nodded and immediately regretted it, he winced and raised his hand to his head. His uncle hummed sympathetically as S.Q. pushed himself up on shaking arms. His uncle moved from kneeling on the floor to sitting on the other end of the couch, right by S.Q.’s feet.
“I know you have had a long day, sweet boy, but with how quickly this developed, we need to talk about taking you to a doctor.” S.Q. still didn’t like the idea of going to an actual doctor’s office, and it must have shown on his face, because his uncle set his upon S.Q.’s knee, and said “I’m presuming there weren’t many doctors on the island. But I can assure you that one of us will be there the entire time. You will have an adult with you the whole way through, and we’ll do everything we can to make sure you feel safe, okay?” He felt hesitant nonetheless, but his uncle’s words reassured him somewhat, so he nodded. His uncle smiled at him and ruffled his hair before standing. “Wonderful, I’ll make an appointment, then. Meanwhile, you must get some rest.” He leaned over and pressed a kiss to S.Q.’s forehead. He was asleep again before his uncle had even left the room.
The door to S.Q.’s room clicked closed behind him. Nicholas made a beeline to his study. He picked up a pillow from the couch, pressed his face into it, and let out a long scream. He heard the door to his study open but paid it no mind as he sat heavily down on the couch and set his head upon his hands in a fit of rare and silent anger. He liked to consider himself a rather calm man. He had gotten quite good at keeping a moderate reign on his emotions to avoid fits of narcolepsy. And he was contented with his life as it was, or at least he tried to be. But it was harder with his nephew. Or, more specifically, with his brother’s treatment of him. He could see it all plainly, the damage his brother had done. S.Q. was such a lovely boy and had brought him nothing but joy since he had met him. But sometimes he would speak of the most insidious treatment as though it was normal, the most lonely days and nights and even holidays, and it was not so easy for him to keep himself awake.
“Sir,” Number Two said, “are you alright?” Nicholas took a slow, deep breath, and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes. The couch cushion shifted as someone sat next to him, and he heard the shuffling of three sets of feet. He looked up to find Milligan, Numer Two. and Rhonda all there in the room with him. Milligan was sitting beside him on the couch. Across from him, Number Two was perched on the coffee table, and Rhonda was curled close by on an armchair. Nicholas pulled his feet up and sat crisscrossed on the couch.
“I’ve got no clue.” He said honestly. For truly, he didn’t. He seemed to have any number of emotions and thoughts running through his head at any given moment. Especially when related to his nephew. Milligan squeezed his shoulder gently and he returned it with a soft pat on the hand. He rested his forehead against his hand. “I’ve got to schedule an appointment for S.Q., but, I don’t know how busy I might get. We’re still dealing with my brother and I-”
“One of us will take him if you get busy,” Number Two said, “we’ll make sure one of us is available, just make the appointment.” He smiled gratefully as Number Two.
“Thank you,” he sighed. Rhonda hummed and leaned her head against the back of the chair.
“The poor boy,” she sighed, “of course, the creator of the emergency isn’t bound to be the father of the year, but…” she looked over at Nicholas and closed her mouth, likely realizing her phrasing could have been better. She sighed, and began again, “well, he has us now. We’ll give him everything he’s been lacking.” Nicholas nodded and finally removed his head from his hands. He nodded at Rhonda.
“You’re right, my dear. Entirely right.” It was a hard thing to understand. His brother’s actions, specifically the treatment of his son. How he could take such a kindhearted, gentle, caring boy and not love him wholly and unconditionally, Nicholas would never understand. His brother had laid his claws in deep, he had torn in without a thought of where it might have led. Nicholas would never understand it. But, at least he could help fix some of the damage done. Of course, none of it would be easy, not for S.Q., nor for him. Recovery was not a straight line, least of all with such a complicated situation as this. But Nicholas had been there, at one point in his life, and though it had been drastically different (in both environment and dynamic,) Nicholas knew how deep his brother could cut when he wanted to. And he knew how to tend those wounds. He had been on his own when he’d first started to do so himself, and he was determined to make sure S.Q. had all of the support he had lacked in his own childhood. He still carried the guilt of not reconnecting with his brother sooner, not in the least now that he knew of his more personal hurt.
“Well,” Rhonda said, “I believe we should all get some rest.” They all agreed, and each went their separate ways.
Nicholas made an appointment for two days time. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for S.Q.’s illness to devolve further. At around three AM the next night, Nicholas found himself waking to the sound of gagging, coming from the bathroom. He slid out of bed and headed down the hall with all the urgency he could while still half-asleep. He knocked on the door gently. He knocked softly on the door of the bathroom and was met with another retching sound from beyond the door. Then a soft, almost imperceptible, “occupied.”
Nicholas let out a soft exhale of breath that might have been a laugh were it not so late at night and he was not so worried for his nephew. “S.Q.?” He called quietly, “are you alright?” Unexpectedly, the door opened. S.Q. leaned out from behind the door. He looked somehow more miserable than he had the previous morning. He was sweaty, hair plastered to his forehead, his natural curls slightly frizzy, and his shirt clung to his chest. His cheeks and nose were both flushed a sickly red color, and he held one arm around his protesting stomach while the other propped his shaking form against the door frame. Nicholas frowned, he held out an arm for S.Q. and wrapped it around his shoulder. S.Q. leaned against him for a moment before he stiffened and darted back into the bathroom. “Oh, my dear,” Nicholas sighed softly, stepping into the bathroom and kneeling beside S.Q. to rub his back. He glanced back toward the door, racking his memory. What had he done, back at the orphanage anytime Nathaniel had gotten sick? Or when Rhonda had caught a fever some time ago?
He took a deep breath, “Okay,” he said, as the gagging dissipated into tired coughs. S.Q. swiped at his mouth and sniffled softly. “Let’s get you some tea,” S.Q. made a noise of protest, no doubt his stomach would not keep down anything he tried to put in it, “I know, I know. But it’ll help, I promise.” He helped guide S.Q. to his feet, and he leaned heavily against him. He walked S.Q. downstairs and settled him on the couch with a thick blanket. He pressed the back of his hand against S.Q.’s forehead and grimaced. S.Q.’s temperature had not improved since yesterday. In fact, it only seemed to be getting worse. S.Q. mumbled something, his eyes half-closed already. It sounded vaguely like-
“What was that?” He asked, his voice soft and hesitant. S.Q. sighed heavily and turned over, burrowing into the blankets.
“Dad,” he mumbled, and Nicholas’s heart skipped a beat, “I don’t feel well…” gently, he brushed S.Q.’s hair from his face, frowning.
“S.Q.,” he said, “could you tell me where we are right now?” S.Q. looked at him as if this were an odd question.
“We’re at home.”
“Where’s home, my dear?”
“The island,” he said. Nicholas frowned softly and ran his hands through S.Q.’s hair, carding his hands through the dark curls. He sat on the edge of the couch as S.Q. leaned into the touch.
“S.Q., we aren’t on the island, we’re in Stonetown. And I’m not your father, I’m your uncle.” S.Q. blinked at him, brows furrowing his eyebrows in confusion as he processes this information. He leaned his head heavily against the pillow.
“Oh,” he mumbled, looking around at the living room. His expression grew more confused, then his eyes began to brim with tears. It was likely his fever mixed with his exhaustion was causing some delirium, which must have been both confusing and no doubt scary. Nicholas’s frown deepened and he pulled S.Q. into a hug. His nephew hugged him back tightly, sniffling softly.
“I don’t wanna get you sick,” he croaked, His voice was hoarse and tired. He continued to card his fingers through S.Q.’s hair. It seemed a reality check was not what S.Q. needed at that moment, so he said nothing more, simply letting S.Q. cry quietly into his shoulder. After a moment, S.Q. pulled away and Nicholas pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.
“It’s alright, I’ll be just fine. I’m more worried about you, right now.” S.Q.’s expression returned to that of mild confusion again. Nicholas couldn’t help but worry that the boy was still mistaking him for his brother. “You wait right here, I’m going to get you some tea and Gravol.” S.Q., too tired to do so much as nod, closed his eyes and let out a soft mumbled of agreement.
Number Two, to no one’s surprise, was in the kitchen. She was making a sandwich. She raised an eyebrow as he stepped into the kitchen, looking as worried and exhausted as he felt. She squished the sandwich down with the palm of her hand, “trouble sleeping?” She asked, taking a bite of her sandwich. He sighed and shook his head.
“S.Q. is getting worse,” he sighed. She frowned and swiped at her mouth with the back of her hand. Her eyebrows furrowed.
“Worse?” She said, and set her sandwich down on the plate she’d used to assemble it. “How so?”
Nicholas leaned against the kitchen island and pressed his palms into his tired eyes. “He was throwing up,” he said “and his fever has risen. It also seems to be making him a bit delirious.” He cleared his throat, “he mistook me for my brother.” Number Two grimaced visibly. He couldn’t blame her.
“I figured some tea and Gravol was in order.” She nodded at him and gestured toward the already filled and steaming kettle on the stove. He shot her a grateful smile, then went to the cupboard and pulled out a mug. It was S.Q.’s favorite. A white mug with robins, bluejays and other birds painted on it. S.Q. had seen it in a store window on a trip into town and it had caught his eye right away. He’d been rather embarrassed when Nicholas had offered to get it for him. But the fifteen dollars had been worth it, S.Q. used to mug every day. Nicholas filled the mug with tea. Number Two offered up some of the toast she had made. He accepted gladly, it was important S.Q. stayed fed, even if his stomach might protest. Toast was a good option, plain and simple, little chance of making a stomach ache worse. Soon enough, he had what he needed. He thanked Number Two and made his way back to the living room. S.Q. was still curled up on the couch, buried under the thick plaid blanket. Nicholas set the plate and mug down on the coffee table and S.Q. raised his head from the pillow at the noise, soft though it was.
“Hello, my dear,” Nicholas said as he sat down on the other end of the couch by S.Q.’s feet. His nephew pushed himself up on shaking arms and rubbed at his eyes.
“Hi,” he said through a yawn. He looked toward the tea and toast with some hesitance, no doubt fearing he’d be darting back to the bathroom not long after he’d eaten.
“I know, but you need to eat,” Nicholas said, detecting his nephew’s hesitance without him needing to voice it. S.Q. sighed and picked up the mug of tea. A small smile graced his face as he looked at the birds on the sides of the cup. He took a small sip of tea and set his mug back down. He leaned heavily against the pillows. “How are you feeling?” S.Q. shrugged, to which Nicholas gave him an imploring look. He rubbed his eyes.
“Worse than yesterday,” he finally said, “my headache has gotten worse.” Nicholas frowned and shifted closer. He pressed the back of his hand against S.Q.’s forehead again, as though continually checking it might somehow change the outcome.
“I think we may have to get you to a doctor sooner than we’d planned.” S.Q. shifted uncomfortably. He shoved the blanket half off of himself, deciding it was too warm. Nicholas sighed gently and swept S.Q.’s hair from his face. He held his arm out, and S.Q. leaned against him. “It’ll be just fine.”
“I’m sorry I’ve worried you all,”
“You have nothing to apologize for, my dear.” He said, turning to look at S.Q., who managed to glance up at him, despite his apparent shame, “my dear, we worry for you because we love you, and we want you to be happy and healthy. You haven’t done anything wrong.” S.Q. shifted slightly and set his head back against Nicholas’s shoulder. He couldn’t seem to find an answer, but that was just fine, Nicholas didn’t need one.
S.Q. decided almost immediately that he did not like the hospital’s walk-in clinic. The combination of the smell and fluorescent lights only worsened his headache. And the mask he’d had to wear made his nose itchy. He slumped down in his chair, eyes drooping. He looked around at the waiting room they were sitting in. The walls were a plain, almost sickly-looking yellow. The chairs were beige and squeaky, and after a while, S.Q.’s back became sore from sitting in it. At the end of each row of chairs were small tables with boxes of tissues. Adorning the walls were different posters, all filled with medical advice. The receptionist at the counter had looked bored, and she’d raised an eyebrow upon hearing his last name. He wasn’t sure if it was because she’d heard of his father, or simply because he had a rather uncommon last name. Either way, it had made him wither and shrink in on himself. His only comfort was Number Two and Mr. Benedict, who were sitting on either side of him in the uncomfortable beige chairs.
After what felt like an eternity of waiting, a doctor stepped out of a grey door by the receptionist. He tensed when she called his name. He rose from his chair, along with his uncle and Number Two. The doctor was a tall woman with jet black hair and rather piercing blue eyes. She wore a white coat with blue scrubs underneath. She had a friendly face, and she smiled warmly at him, but it did not help make him any less nervous. She talked with Mr. Benedict and Number Two as she led them to a cot behind a blue curtain. She instructed him to sit down on the edge of the cot. His feet just barely scraped the floor when he sat on it. She sat down in a chair by the cot, setting her clipboard in her lap.
“Hey there, I’m Dr. Danielle, you must be Shepard,” she said. Her voice was calm and gentle, and she was still smiling. She didn’t wait for him to respond, “So, your… father?”
“Uncle,” S.Q. corrected, she nodded with a small ‘ah,’ and wrote something down on her clipboard.
“Your uncle here told me you haven’t been feeling well, could you describe some of your symptoms to me?” S.Q. shifted on the cot, it creaked slightly under his movement. He tried to recall what he’d gone over with himself that morning. S.Q. wasn’t good with being put on the spot, and it was seldom that he put words to his physical wellbeing, making this a conversation he’d had to rehearse about thirty times in his head.
“Um, I’ve had a headache,” he began, his voice was hoarse and thick just as it had been the previous night. That had been what he’d first noticed. The gentle pounding in the back of his head that had grown quickly into a splitting migraine. Dr. Danielle hummed, nodding at him. Her face was attentive. She was truly listening, and she truly did care. He started tapping his foot against the frame of the bed as he described the rest of his symptoms. His sore throat and cough, the fever, throwing up, and of course, having passed out the other morning. At this, she raised an eyebrow.
“You passed out?” She asked, as though she might have misheard him. Her brow furrowed and she hummed. He shifted in her chair and took something from around her neck “alright, I’m gonna listen to your breathing. I’ll need to lift your shirt up, is that okay?” He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but it wasn’t as if he had much choice, so he nodded. The doctor shot him another friendly smile. She placed the earpieces into her ears and lifted the back of his shirt. She pressed something cold and circular against his back, and he tensed slightly as goosebumps rose on his arms. “Take a deep breath for me?” She said, and he did. He took a long, deep breath. “Good, now exhale.” And he did. She asked him to repeat that motion a few more times, then pulled away and took the earpieces from her ears.
“Okay, we’re going to have to take an x-ray of your chest. Have you ever had an x-ray before?” He shook his head. He didn’t bother telling her he had never even been inside a hospital, aside from the one he had been born in. She nodded and clicked her pen. “Well, I promise it is entirely safe.”
He did not feel very safe in the x-ray room. It was dimly lit, and he had had to change into a rather uncomfortable hospital gown, and on top of that, they’d placed a vest of sorts on him as they’d led him to where he was told to scan. They’d told him to stand still, he did not need to be told twice. He’d squeezed his eyes closed for most of it. Of course, nothing horrible had happened. It last a total of sixty seconds, then the doctor took the vest and led him back out to where Number Two and Mr. Benedict were waiting for him. The doctor then led the three of them back to the area they had been sitting in before. She sat in her chair again and sighed softly. Pneumonia, she told them. It was had started as a cold and developed into something worse. She explained it shouldn’t be hard to kick, with proper antibiotics (which she prescribed), and some rest (which Number Two and Mr. Benedict would no doubt enforce), it should be gone within a few days. “Just,” she said “try not to let it get so bad next time, alright? It’s important to listen to your body.” Then, she sent them home.
The arrival home was immediately followed by taking antibiotics and a thick blanket, and soon enough S.Q. was laying in his bed, wrapped in thick duvets and staring up at the ceiling, begging his brain to shut down and let him sleep. He stared for hours on end, until the sky grew dark and stars began to speckle the black outside the window. He tossed and turned more than once. He pulled the blanket over his head, trying to block out any minuscule light that the moon offered to him. He had taken his antibiotics as instructed, and he had rested as he was told. But all the naps throughout the day, interrupted only to eat, was making it rather difficult to fall asleep now that it was truly bedtime. He turned over, rolling up into his blanket and burying his face in his pillow. It wasn’t as though this were a new experience. He and insomnia were no strangers. He sat up in his bed and set his head upon his hands. Perhaps tea would help.
The hallway was entirely silent. For all the comfort and love the house provided, nothing could stop a large, quiet house from being rather scary at night. The lights were all off, and he dared not turn them on for fear of waking someone. So, he crept slowly down the hallway, feeling the wall to guide his way. The wallpaper was smooth beneath his fingers, every few feet they skimmed over the frame of a photo, or knocked into the edge of a drawer until finally, he felt the wood of the banister. The stairs were much the same, toeing carefully down them, at a slow pace. He was not interested in falling down the stairs. His body was sore enough as it was. Downstairs was no better. The whole house was shrouded in darkness. He could see only one light, and that was from the kitchen. Pale light poured out from the entryway and S.Q. walked toward it like a moth to a flame, deadset on getting his tea and going back upstairs.
Number Two was in the kitchen. She already had a kettle on the stove, steam pouring from the nozzle just as she removed it to stop the whistle from going off and waking the entire household. She set the kettle on the cold burner and turned, freezing when she saw S.Q. standing in the entryway. She held a piece of toast in her mouth, she took a bite as she removed it, now that her hands were free.
“I’m sorry, did I wake you?” He shook his head and winced (he needed to remember not to do that) and stepped cautiously further into the kitchen, as though concerned he might be intruding upon something.
“Uh, no, I just came to get some tea. I can’t sleep.”
“Ah, I see, well you’re in luck.” she gestured to the kettle, stuck the toast back in her mouth, then went to get two mugs from the cupboard. She pulled out a canary yellow mug and the white one with birds and set them both on the counter. She swiped at her mouth as she finished her toast and turned to S.Q. “remind me what tea you like?”
“Um, chamomile.” She nodded and strode to another cupboard. S.Q. sat and watched her from the table, wondering if he should perhaps be helping. He tapped his foot against the tile floor, it was a soft ‘thud’ as his socked foot connected with linoleum. Soon, a mug of tea and a plate of toast were set in front of him and Number Two had sat down across from him.
“How are you feeling?” she asked, taking a bite out of another piece of toast she had gotten for herself. “I trust you’ve taken your antibiotics?”
He nearly nodded but stopped himself “I have. And I’m feeling better. I just can’t sleep. I think it’s because I’ve already been sleeping all day.” She hummed and set her toast down so she could sip her tea.
“I see. Well, drink your tea, perhaps that will help.” She took a sip of her tea. S.Q., meanwhile, stared into his own. Eventually, he managed to pick it up and take a sip, ignoring how it stung his throat to swallow anything, even tea. Neither of them spoke, though S.Q. found that this was not awkward. They simply didn’t need to. He could simply exist there, without needing to provide anything. He could simply enjoy the company of his friend. So he drank his tea, and he did.