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Everything was normal that Saturday except Abel was sick. And Abel rarely fell sick.
The symptoms developed almost entirely overnight. On Thursday evening, Abel had retired to his bedroom earlier than usual claiming he had no appetite for dinner and was feeling more tired than usual. Dirga assumed he had worked himself beyond exhaustion and thought nothing more -- his housemate was notorious for his rigid work ethics. The next morning, however, Abel had failed to show up for breakfast. Dirga found this curious as he would usually be the first to rise and greet Dirga at the table just as he awoke. Wondering whether Abel had left for his errands early, he knocked on Abel’s door and was surprised to hear his housemate’s voice, muffled and weakened, beckoning him to enter. Abel was a sluggish mess. He was completely immobilised and burning all over. Dirga called the physician over and he determined that Abel had dengue fever.
“Try not to worry for now,” the Dutch physician advised, solemnly but reassuringly. “Many have recovered from the fever on their own. With enough care, Mr. Netherlands could be back on his feet within a week. I shall call in our nurses to look after him until he recovers.”
Dirga was not worried. Abel was someone who cannot die no matter what ailment fell on him. No, Dirga was more worried that even in his incapacitated state, Abel -- the headstrong fool -- would still be thinking about work and running all of the businesses that he owned in Batavia. Much to the protests of his housemate, Dirga confiscated all of his business logs and documents from his room, and replaced them with all sorts of books and novels.
“If anything goes wrong, Dirga, I’ll get you for this,” Abel threatened weakly (with hardly any venom in his bite).
“I’d like to see you crawl out of bed and try,” Dirga retorted coolly, “or you can thank me later.”
The nurses came that Saturday morning. Both of them arrived dressed to their ankles in white and were well in their middle ages. One of them was considerably tall and bony with a hawkish nose, contrasting with her smaller and portly companion. Dirga showed them to Abel’s room, where they instantly flocked towards the bed-ridden man and smothered him with unexpected vivacity. Dirga did not miss the flash of panic that Abel shot him with one look before he fully closed his door. Content that his housemate was in capable hands, Dirga settled on the couch in the sitting room outside Abel’s chamber and dived into the daily newspaper.
A while passed. Dirga could still hear the muffled chatter of the nurses in Abel’s bedroom as they fussed over him. His lips curled in a small smile. He was sure the garrulous nurses were trying to humour Abel, or themselves, and he wondered how his taciturn housemate was handling the situation.
As if to answer his question, Dirga eventually heard the bass timbre of Abel’s voice rise, interrupting the women’s conversation. His ears pricked, finding himself curious at what Abel had to say and the sudden hush that he summoned. However, his attempt to eavesdrop proved fruitless as the voices in the room were reduced to indistinguishable murmurs, and gradually fell to a complete silence.
Then, there was the click of a door and the creak of it swinging on its hinge. A woman’s voice called, “Mr. Indonesia.”
Dirga looked up from the newspaper towards Abel’s bedroom door. The two nurses emerged, looking somewhat disgruntled, but nevertheless gave Dirga their polite curtsies. The Indonesian raised a brow.
“Meneer wishes to see you,” announced the tall nurse. She held her frame stiffly, as though indignant at whatever wrongdoing someone had inflicted on her.
Dirga blinked. “What for?”
The nurse gave him a wry smile. “Perhaps he would appreciate your company more.”
Perplexed, Dirga folded the newspaper and stood up, tucking it under his arm. The beak-nosed nurse had already swept past him, darting straight to the kitchen to help herself to a cup of tea. Only her companion remained, pink-faced and blinking amicably at Dirga as he approached her at Abel’s door.
“We might have been a bit too loud and excited,” she whispered apologetically. “It isn’t everyday that we get to tend to the Mr. Netherlands. Is it true that he and you are…”
Her voice trailed off, though her eyes hung on Dirga questioningly, which made Dirga’s heartbeat grow inexplicably frantic. “What?” Dirga asked hesitantly. He knew the pair amassed many rumours, both political and personal, owing to the strained relationship between the people they were supposed to represent -- and that despite it all, they were still cohabiting with each other. It’s a symbol of unity between our lands , Abel has said countless times. Our people need to be assured that the bond between Nederlands-Indië remains solid, otherwise instability would ensue .
It was daft. Dirga never really shared the sentiment, and he knew neither did the majority of his people (can two people cohabiting really spur that much hope in the public, anyway?). But Abel has proved to be a more-than-tolerable housemate. Both have agreed to be as civil and apolitical as possible within their shared space, insisting that domestic affairs should not be mixed with professional ones. In their household, Abel has never made Dirga as a mere subordinate, although many had expected him to do so. So Dirga stayed.
The nurse leaned in closer, her eyes bulging. “...That you’re immortal? ”
Dirga blinked, dumbstruck. Then he could not help but burst into laughter, feeling the tension dissolve from his shoulders. He wasn’t sure which rumour he was preparing himself to hear, but it certainly wasn’t that one.
“Mevrouw, ” Dirga chuckled, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “If that was true, wouldn’t that be absurd?”
The nurse laughed along with him, although slightly confused. “You are right. How silly of me to believe such a tall tale. Though I was so convinced...”
She wasn’t wrong. Dirga and Abel were immortal, but preferred to keep this information contained within their closest circles (which usually meant only those within the highest rankings of the government body). This was perhaps one of the reasons why they were stuck with each other. When everyone else entered their lives and passed, Abel was the only other person who witnessed and shared all of what Dirga had seen over the centuries under Nederlands-Indië. They were, put candidly, each others’ constant.
“Well, he has probably grown tired of us fussing over him. He could do with the companionship of a friend while we take a breather.” The nurse patted Dirga on his arm. “Humour him, dear. The fever seems to be making him rather prickly.”
That’s just the way he is , Dirga wanted to reply, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. But he simply thanked her and quietly opened Abel’s door.
It was dark inside. The room was lit only by a bar of light entering from a gap between the rose curtains, and whatever light diffused in from their translucency. The aromatic smell of cajeput oil filled the room. In the four-poster bed in the centre, Abel rested with his blanket drawn up to his chest, looking flushed with the fever. His blonde hair was plastered onto his forehead by a thin sheet of sweat.
“Abel?” Dirga called softly. At the call of his name, the bed-ridden man tilted his head to look at Dirga through half-lidded eyes. “The nurses said you called for me.”
“Yes,” Abel breathed. His deep, dark voice was softer than usual. “Sit down.”
The Dutchman nodded at the seat by his bed. Dirga obeyed, making his way quietly to the chair and settled down. He held up the newspaper in front of Abel. “I brought you the news, in case you needed some entertainment.”
“I can hardly read,” Abel grumbled. “You’ll need to read it to me later.”
Dirga smirked and laid the newspaper on Abel’s bedside table. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you so helpless. I nearly forgot you were ever ill.”
“Does it please you to see me like this?”
“I’m not a sadist. I just meant that it paints you a bit more human.”
Dirga caught a curious twinkle in Abel’s weary eyes. “As opposed to?”
“A machine, ” was what Dirga wanted to say. Instead he bit his lip and reconsidered. “You need to stop working yourself too hard. We’re immortal, not fail-proof.”
Abel snorted. “There’s no point in worrying about the inconsequential. We’ll live through it, anyway.”
“I don’t mean to nag, Abel, but... I can’t imagine you’ll get too far with your brilliant business ideas if you keep neglecting your health.”
“This wasn’t something I could have prevented. These blasted mosquitoes…”
Dirga shook his head dismissively. “I think you’ve been careless about your wellbeing regardless. You haven’t been coming home at a reasonable hour for a while. Sometimes I wish you were less of a business tycoon and more of a -- an average Dutch aristocrat coming here to simply enjoy the scenery, once in a while.”
“Dirga, I called you in because the nurses were giving me a headache with their incessant chatter, and I was hoping you could relieve me,” Abel raised his voice hoarsely, shutting his eyes. “Can you just sit there and not speak for a moment?”
“Then why do you need--”
“Please. ” Abel cocked his head to Dirga’s direction once more. “Let’s not speak for a moment.”
Dirga clamped his mouth shut, defeated. He leaned back in his seat and took a deep breath. The soothing smell of cajeput oil filled his lungs, offering him a slight relief from the annoyance he felt because of how stupidly complicated his Dutch counterpart was behaving. If he wanted silence so much then why did he bother to call for Dirga? After three centuries together, Dirga still felt there were parts of Abel that he failed to grasp. As his irritation rattled in his mind, he let his eyes rest on the gap between the curtains. He could see the clouds were rolling in, portending the afternoon rain. His mind began to wander to various trivial things as they rested in the silence, which was punctured only by the steady ticking of the clock on Abel’s wall.
At some point, Abel inhaled deeply through his nose and sighed. This intake of breath drew Dirga out from his daydreaming, and he turned to look at Abel. He nearly jolted in his seat when he saw that Abel was looking at him with an expression that seemed almost… soft . Dirga felt his heart quicken in his chest. How long has he been staring?
“Um,” Dirga began, touching his face instinctively. “Is there something on my face?”
Abel continued to study him wordlessly for a few seconds. Dirga started to worry that the Dutchman did not hear him. Then, slowly, Abel drew in another breath and exhaled. “Hm. No,” he murmured. “Just… looking at you soothes me, somehow.”
Dirga’s nape prickled with warmth. The only thing he could make sense of was the violent thumping in his chest, a dam on the verge of bursting by a deluge of panic. He cleared his throat, frowning. “You’re delirious. The fever is making you say odd things. Has it gone down at all?”
Dirga reached forward to feel Abel’s cheek, hoping the dimness of the room would mask the colour in his face. Abel’s skin burned in Dirga’s touch, prompting the Indonesian to suck in his breath through his teeth. “So hot,” Dirga murmured. Then--
“Oh! ” Dirga let out a small gasp. Abel had reached for Dirga’s hand, enveloping it, slipping his fingers in-between his so that they were intertwined. He held the back of Dirga’s hand against his cheek and gave it a gentle squeeze.
“Your hand feels nice and cool,” Abel mumbled. His eyelids drooped slowly until it was completely closed. “Stay like this for a minute.”
Rumours, rumours, rumours. All of a sudden Dirga remembered a hundred silly rumours that he heard the public harboured around them over time. That the two have formed a secret pact to make themselves inseparable, bound by the magic of dukun , which could either be a curse or a blessing depending on which side you were on. That the two probably have slept with each other. That Abel was hopelessly in love with Dirga, only Dirga simply could not see it -- or refused to see it -- despite their proximity. Poor Abel!
Dirga’s face burned. It was true that the two had slept with each other, and still do (perhaps a bit more frequently than Dirga would like to admit). But Dirga had always assumed they did it devoid of any feelings deeper than pure lust. Not once did Abel declare his love for Dirga and mean it; although, there were numerous occasions where Abel grew incredibly drunk and slurred out the words, or at the height of their love-making, Abel made impassioned confessions akin to love. But he could not have meant them, because the morning after, it always seemed like he had forgotten what he said, and they both would carry on with their lives as usual.
But then there were moments like this that would always cast doubts on Dirga’s assumptions.
“Dirga,” Abel suddenly spoke. He opened his eyes slowly and looked up at Dirga. “You’re probably one of the reasons why I’ve held out this long. I hope you know that.”
There it is. Another hollow confession -- and as always, it snared Dirga’s breath in his throat.
“Bodoh. You’ve held out this long because you can’t die.”
Abel chuckled softly. “Even immortals need to find reasons to keep on living.”
This time, it was Dirga who gave Abel’s hand a squeeze. “Sleep and get some rest.”
“Will you stay with me until I fall asleep? Hopefully that would keep the nurses away for longer.”
Dirga laughed. “You’ll have to get used to them until you’re all better I’m afraid.”
Abel’s eyelids grew heavier and he shut them, frowning. “That’s most unfortunate.”
Nothing more was said. Dirga observed as Abel’s breathing grew deeper and steady, the knot in his brows undoing so that a look of serenity fell on his face. Like this, Dirga was able to study Abel’s features closely. He noted how soft his face looked while he slept, taking an almost vulnerable quality, which was something Dirga had always secretly liked to admire whenever they both ended up in one bed and Dirga couldn’t sleep. He found himself unable to stop the bubbling warmth spreading in his chest.
And if Abel really did love Dirga, then what ? Would Dirga ever be able to reciprocate? Would they even stay together long enough for the chance to come (when Dirga always felt so close, so close , to leaving Abel behind in the pursuit of his own free path)?
Dirga felt the weight of Abel’s hand in his, the warmth of it. Perhaps in the future , Dirga thought, when they stood on more equal grounds. He wondered whether that day would ever come.
Feeling the calmness of the room seize him, Dirga laid his head on the bed beside Abel and closed his eyes. For now, he would relish in a little afternoon nap and let matters of the future be of little consequence. Like that they drifted off, until the nurses came in later and found them sleeping, hand-in-hand.