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With six new recruits and various branches of the mafia no longer actively trying to kill members of their team, Neil assumed that struggling through full matches was a thing of the past.
He assumed wrong.
This time, the culprit was not a psychotic, egomaniacal yakuza reject, but something far more insidious. It made its attack at the start of January, pervading the walls of Fox Tower, taking down unsuspecting athletes one by one.
Kevin was taking no chances. The moment the first of their teammates was struck down with the so-called Palmetto Plague, he installed an antibacterial gel dispenser in their dorm, along with a vaguely sketchy supply of ‘immune-boosting’ multivitamins. (Or Day-ly vitamins, as Nicky had put it, to everyone’s exasperation.) Of course, nobody cooperated. Andrew tossed his portion of health pills out of the window in favour of downing ice cream. Aaron used his pre-med status to claim that most multivitamins were useless byproducts of capitalism. Nicky refused on the justification that they weren’t ‘the gummy ones’. And no one else liked Kevin enough to give a shit.
Neil couldn’t resist the opportunity to mock Kevin for being a hypochondriac, but secretly took the supplements anyway. He figured they wouldn’t do him any harm. And, more importantly, he wasn’t going to let something as trivial as the flu keep him from the courts, even if it meant surrendering to Kevin’s paranoia.
Which was why Neil was personally offended when, two weeks of vitamins and vigilant hand-washing later, his dismissible scratchy throat graduated overnight to a raging headache, sore throat and stuffed nose, complete with limbs that ached with every twitch.
“Fuck the Day-ly vitamins,” he groaned face first into his pillow.
“Fuck the Day-ly vitamins,” a familiar voice agreed sagely. Neil cracked one eye open to see Andrew’s head popping down from the loft, haloed in too-bright morning sunlight. Andrew lifted a critical eyebrow. Or at least, Neil thought he did. It was difficult to tell through the light flooding his squinting eye. “You look like shit.”
“And you look like an angel,” Neil murmured drowsily.
Andrew’s expression didn’t budge, but the vaguely disturbed flicker in his eyes said, the fuck?
“A satanic angel,” Neil corrected.
“I can’t tell if you’re sick or stupid.”
“Both,” Neil sighed. “Remind me never to take health advice from Kevin again.” Slowly, he pushed himself into a sitting position, shuddering as the comforter fell away along with his shroud of body heat. The pain in his head flared in protest. He sniffed thickly and rubbed his eyes. “Where is he anyway?”
“Watching reruns of Bearcat games and trying not to have a panic attack,” Andrew said.
The reruns were because the Foxes would be facing the Bearcats in their upcoming death match. The panic attack was because said death match was today and, as of yesterday, seven of the Foxes were out of commission. Five were freshmen who had succumbed to the Palmetto Plague. The sixth was Dan, who had flown out suddenly to visit a stage sister in hospital after an ill-fated stripping accident. The seventh was Jack, who had sprained his ankle attempting to trip Neil up on the court. Neil had been too fast for that shitbag, and had sent him sprawling to the ground instead.
At the time, it had seemed like a fantastic idea. Now, with only himself and Kevin left on the striker line, Neil was starting to have regrets. And, clearly, so was Kevin.
“I should tell you to stay in bed,” said Andrew, as Neil’s thoughts were interrupted by a fit of coughing.
“But?” Neil managed through coughs.
“But I know it won’t make a difference because, as we have established, you are both sick and stupid.”
“I promised Dan I’d captain the team while she was gone—”
“Save your voice. I’m not interested in your never-ending Exy excuses.” The ladder creaked as Andrew climbed down from the loft. Their eyes met between the wooden rungs, the sunlight framing Andrew’s hair in gold once more. And his lips. Oh, god.
“Andrew,” Neil said pointedly. He tried to keep the whine from his voice, and only half succeeded.
Andrew glanced him over in understanding. “You, Josten, are shameless.”
“Just one? I’m in withdrawal.” Andrew had been unusually distant around Neil lately. It had been three days since their last yes. Neil hadn’t pushed Andrew for kisses or answers in that time—he didn’t have the right—but his current sorry state was making him feel twice as touch-starved.
“Junkie,” Andrew muttered. “You’re full of germs. Kissing you now would be self sabotage.”
“Something you’ve never shied away from before.”
It seemed Neil had pushed his luck too far. Instead of leaning in, Andrew jumped down from the remaining rungs and turned around to dig something out of his drawer. He chucked it back at Neil, who was too bleary to catch it, and it slapped into his face with a rattle. “Take those,” said Andrew.
A glance down showed that the offending item had been a pack of painkillers, decongestant and throat lozenges. Neil popped the pills without argument, followed by a lozenge. His mouth had just flooded with the taste of honey and lemon when he felt Andrew’s lips smash into his hair. “That’s all you’re getting,” Andrew said, smoothing Neil’s curls back into place, and disappeared into the bathroom.
Neil couldn’t help his lips tugging upwards. It was enough.
Andrew’s copious supply of cold and flu meds left Neil in a drowsy haze for most of the day. It was alleviating and intolerable all at once. When the effects wore off, he didn’t take another dose. He couldn’t afford for his mind to be sluggish.
Unfortunately, that came with consequences. Namely, the flu symptoms that hit him like an Exy racquet to the stomach (swung by a certain angry blond). By the time the team had gathered in the locker room, Neil was fighting a desperate urge to prostrate himself on the floor. He was vaguely aware of Wymack droning on about the responsibility Dan had delegated to him. Something about rising to the occasion. Neil might have registered what Wymack was saying, if he wasn’t too preoccupied trying not to cough. His lungs felt ready to explode.
He was brought back to his senses with a clap on his shoulder. “You alright?” asked Wymack.
“I’m fine, Coach,” Neil responded without thinking. He cringed at the hoarseness in his voice and quickly cleared his throat. “Just nervous.”
Wymack rolled his eyes at the words. “You sound like you’ve crushed my liquor supply and swallowed the glass.” Which, in all fairness, wasn’t far from how Neil actually felt.
“It’s nothing,” he insisted, but he’d attracted the heat of Kevin’s scrutinising glare. “I—uh—spent time with Andrew on the roof last night. A lot of screaming. Lost my voice a bit—”
“Christ, he didn’t torture you, did he?” Matt asked, overhearing.
“No, it was consensual.”
Matt choked and tripped into a locker door. Wymack threw up his arms and walked away, proclaiming, “Above my pay grade, above my pay grade.” Kevin looked deeply nauseated. A glance at Andrew showed an apathetic expression at always, but Neil didn’t miss the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement.
Neil was glad not to have to deal with the new recruits, but that left only their skeleton team. None of them had played full matches in months, and it showed. The moment the game started, the Bearcats pressed their advantage with ferocity. They wanted to exhaust the Foxes’ energy within the first half. The others seemed to be holding up, but Neil was flagging fast. Every muscle in his body throbbed within a few minutes. His pace slowed, his shots grew sloppy. Kevin was yelling at him in frustrated French, but he could have been speaking Japanese for all Neil’s tired brain was able to comprehend.
His mother’s unsympathetic voice filled his head.
For fuck’s sake, Abram. We don’t have time for this. Mind over matter, remember? I don’t care how bad you’re feeling. Pull yourself together right this bloody instant, or neither of us will even live to regret it.
After years on the run, mind over matter had become second nature. Neil hadn’t had a choice; it was either that, or risk getting caught. But the past year of safety had rendered him complacent. Now, no amount of internal convincing could make Neil forget the heaviness of his limbs, the sharp pain that came with every swallow. It was a miserable distraction, and one he couldn’t overcome. They finished the first half with a three point lag behind the Bearcats. All of their goals had been scored by Kevin.
“Your head’s not in the game, Neil,” Wymack chided, when they were back in the locker room for their too-short break.
“I know. I’m working on it,” Neil said wearily.
“Well, work on it fast. We have a three point gap to close.”
“We’re gonna lose because of him,” said a petulant voice. Neil whirled around to see Jack slouched on a bench, his injured ankle propped up. “Kicked out of championships because Neil Josten can’t fucking shoot.”
Neil clenched his fists. This wasn’t the first time Jack had made a jab at him, and it wouldn’t be the last. Usually, Neil could tolerate it, but not when it brought down the morale of the rest of the team. Not when he was ill, aching and feeling worse by the minute. His patience was hanging on by a fraying thread. “Shut it,” he growled.
“So insecure,” Jack laughed mockingly. “Imagine how Dan’s going to react when she comes back and realises her precious little Vice Captain sabotaged her team’s chances in the span of one game?”
“Jack,” Wymack warned, but Neil ignored him, pushing his way into Jack’s face. It was a good thing Jack was sitting, otherwise Neil’s height (or lack of it) would have made this confrontation a lot more awkward.
“How ironic,” he said with a smile. “That you blame me for sabotaging this team, when you were perfectly willing to injure another teammate to inflate your own ego.” Jack opened his mouth to protest, but Neil didn’t stop. “Don’t pretend like we both don’t know how this happened.” He gestured at Jack’s ankle. “You intended for this to be me, didn’t you? You wanted to trip me up, make it look like an accident. But, as always, you underestimated me. And it backfired. Do you know what happened the last time someone tried to injure a member of our team for the same reason?” Neil took a sidelong glance at Kevin, and the look on Jack’s face was one of terrible understanding. “He got his brains blown out. So, before you call someone else saboteur, take a look at yourself, you pathetic, low-life piece of shit.”
After a split second of silence, Jack launched to his feet, fists bared. But Wymack was there first, throwing himself between them. Matt pulled Jack’s arms behind his back as he struggled.
“Fuck you, Josten,” Jack spat out.
“I need some air,” was all Neil murmured, and he strode out of the locker room. There wasn’t very far he could go without leaving the Foxes’ area, so he slipped into the men’s changing room and sank onto one of the benches. The anger had dissipated, leaving behind thick, mind-numbing exhaustion. A sick feeling pooled in his stomach, and it wasn’t just from the flu.
We’re gonna lose because of him.
What if Jack was right?
Neil clutched his head in his hands as a bout of chills overcame him.
The bench creaked with the weight of someone beside him. Neil lifted his head blearily, though he didn’t need to look to know who it would be. Andrew was scanning his eyes over Neil’s trembling body. After a moment, he straightened and clapped a hand to his own shoulder.
Neil looked at him questioningly. Are you sure?
Andrew repeated the action. “Go on,” he said, in lieu of a yes.
And so Neil nestled his heavy head on Andrew’s shoulder. Andrew wrapped a sturdy arm around him, vigorously rubbing the chills out of Neil’s system. His body was warm, familiar. Neil let his eyes drift closed. “Feel awful,” he murmured. It was a far cry from his usual I’m fine, but he’d been working on honesty, especially around Andrew. And he couldn’t spare the energy to pretend otherwise—not with half a game still to play.
“I know,” said Andrew. The words weren’t meant as a comfort, but as a statement. Before Neil had time to consider why he’d said them, Andrew continued. “You should pull out. Let that bastard take your place. See if he can score on that ankle.”
“He’ll injure himself more.”
“He deserves it.”
Neil didn’t doubt that. But he was acting captain. The Foxes were his responsibility. Their victory was his responsibility. “I have to prove him wrong,” he said. “I won’t run from this.”
Andrew gave a single nod in understanding, his cheek brushing against Neil’s hair. “Then I won’t stop you. But, if you collapse on that fucking court, know that I will skin you alive.”
“I won’t collapse,” Neil said. He’d stayed conscious through worse things. Though the involuntary shudder that passed through him didn’t help his case.
Andrew held Neil tighter, and didn’t let go until Neil’s shivering eased, his nausea had faded to a bearable level and he could sit up straight again. He pushed a cold water bottle into Neil’s hands.
“Drink this. I need to talk to Renee.”
“About what?” Neil asked, but Andrew was gone.
The answer became apparent when Neil returned to the locker room. Renee was supposed to be replacing Andrew for the second half, but she was dressed in backliner gear. “Andrew wanted to play both halves,” she explained. At Neil’s look of confusion, she only shrugged.
It didn’t made any sense. The Foxes had a better chance with Andrew in goal, but he’d made it abundantly clear that he didn’t care about Exy. There was no reason for him to offer himself up for a full game. Unless...
Neil met Andrew’s eyes across the room and recognised the look on his face. It was the same look Andrew had given Neil on the night he’d made his promise. Give your back to me, it said. I’ll keep you safe.
This wasn’t about Exy at all. This was about Neil.
Andrew’s promise of protection had long been revoked, but the protective streak was still there. It would always be there. And a part of Neil wanted to argue that he didn’t need Andrew on the court; he could look after himself just fine. But another part of him wanted to hug that protection close, wrap it around himself like an unbreakable shield.
Neil’s approach towards Andrew was met by a stare of defiance, as if waiting for protest, but all Neil said was, “Can you lock down the goal?”
There was a moment’s silence that could have been hesitation. But Andrew answered with a firm, “Yes.”
Neil tightened his grip around his racquet. “Then let’s play.”
With the knowledge that Andrew had his back, and the determination to prove Jack wrong out of pure spite, Neil finally found his footing.
“About fucking time!” Kevin yelled, after Neil had smashed down the ball with all his strength, illuminating the Bearcat’s goal in red.
That first goal gave him the adrenaline rush he needed to keep going, and the rest of the game was a head-pounding, chest-splitting blur. Andrew deflected shot after shot, even those that sent him tumbling to the ground. Meanwhile, Neil and Kevin fought to close the point gap.
With a minute to go, the Foxes and Bearcats were neck and neck. Matt passed the ball to Neil, and he made a mad dash towards the goal. But he was running on fumes, and his mark took the opportunity to body check him, knocking the wind out of Neil’s lungs. Another Bearcat snatched the ball away while he was disoriented, and sent it hurtling towards the Foxes’ goal.
Shit, shit, shit, Neil screamed internally, while Kevin screamed the exact same words out loud.
But the shot was hurried and careless, and landed directly into Andrew’s waiting racquet. With a gargantuan swing, Andrew sent the ball hurtling back the way it came. The Bearcat’s goalie had all but abandoned the game, and didn’t register the shot until the goal lit up red. The shellshocked expression on her face was priceless.
The buzzer sounded. A second later, the Palmetto home crowd erupted in cheers. Orange banners flew overhead. The court door slammed open and theirs subs streamed in. Among them was Dan, who must have returned from her flight. She ran straight towards Matt, and flung herself in his waiting arms. The others were jumping, shouting, hugging. Andrew stood apart from them, propped up against the goalpost, his racquet lying at his feet. He looked exhausted.
Neil started towards him. He wanted to run as Dan had, pull Andrew close and tell him exactly how amazing he was. But the breath was gone from Neil’s lungs. Without adrenaline powering him, every inch of his body screamed with pain and nausea. The floor tilted violently beneath him, and white splotches danced in his vision. His legs buckled. Something cool and hard slammed into the side of his body. Or maybe his body slammed into something cool and hard. Neil clutched at it with trembling fingers, willing the world to stop spinning.
A face came into view above him, golden hair wreathed in stark white light. His satanic angel.
“Yes or no?” Andrew said, placing both hands on Neil’s helmet.
Neil nodded yes and Andrew ripped the helmet off, pillowing Neil’s head with his hand before it knocked against the floor. His other hand came to rest on Neil’s brow. Neil had expected coolness, but Andrew’s touch was hot and sweaty.
The floor vibrated with more footsteps. “Fever?” Dan’s voice.
“Can’t tell.” Was that Andrew? It sounded far too weak to be him.
Another hand replaced Andrew’s. It felt cooler, this time. Why was Andrew letting someone else touch him?
Dan withdrew her hand with a hiss. “What the hell, Andrew? He’s burning up.”
Neil faded away.
He awoke to a torrent of voices. Someone had deposited him on the hospital bed in Abby’s office, and the cramped room was filled with his orange-clad teammates.
“Look. The loser’s coming round.”
“Fuck off, Jack.”
“Neil, are you alright?”
“Let me take a look at him.”
Instead of replying, Neil held up a finger for them to wait, grabbed the bucket left at his bedside, and dry heaved into it. Nothing came up, but the effort triggered a fit of coughing. Abby pushed her way through the crowd and handed Neil a glass of water. Once his lungs were settled, he looked around the room at his audience. Everyone was there, except Jack, who Matt had unceremoniously shoved out of the doorway, and—
“Where’s Andrew?”
The room fell silent. It was Nicky who finally spoke. “He—uh—didn’t take it well when you collapsed, Neil. Last I saw, he was drinking out of a bottle. No one’s seen him since.”
“Probably off getting wasted,” Aaron added with an eye roll.
“Fuck,” Neil groaned, and dropped his head back onto the pillow.
“Hey, don’t worry about Andrew. Leave us to deal with him,” said Renee. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m f—” Neil began, but the collective glare from his teammates made the word die in his throat. “Fluey, I guess. Think I caught the bug going ‘round.”
“No kidding,” Matt said in sympathy.
“When did your symptoms start?” Abby asked.
Neil thought about it. “Yesterday. But I didn’t start feeling bad until this morning.”
“Goddamnit Neil, why didn’t you tell someone?” Dan groaned.
“It wouldn’t have mattered. I needed to play. We were down on strikers, and you asked me to fill in as captain.”
“That doesn’t mean force yourself onto the court with Palmetto Plague and play to the point of collapse!” Dan retorted. “You should’ve told Wymack. He could have called me back early, or brought in one of the freshmen strikers, or—”
“Hold up,” Wymack interrupted. “So, instead of telling me you were sick, you decided to lie and say you wrecked your voice BDSM’ing with Andrew?”
“Wait—what?” Nicky choked.
“Come on, Coach. It was kind of funny,” Neil said weakly.
“You little fucker,” Wymack muttered, waggling his finger.
“Are you and Andrew into BDSM, though?” Nicky blurted.
“I wouldn’t put it past them,” muttered Allison.
“Enough,” Abby said firmly. “Everyone out. I need to take a look at Neil, and I can’t do that with you all swarming him and talking about his sex life.” With a grand sweep of her arms, she herded them out like cattle. Kevin was the last to remain, leaning against the far wall.
“You played well,” he said, arms folded.
It was rare praise. Kevin most likely approved of Neil prioritising Exy above his own health. But, regardless, Neil mustered a tired smile. “So did you.”
Kevin gave a curt nod and left Neil at the mercy of Abby’s examination. She checked his vitals, peered into his ears and throat, listened to his breathing and poked around at his definitely-swollen lymph nodes. Neil tolerated it all without struggle; the match had left him so devoid of energy, he doubted he could stop her if he tried.
“It’s the flu, alright,” Abby said finally. “You had me worried when you passed out, but that seems to have been mainly caused by over-exertion.”
“So I’m fine, then?” Neil started to shuffle off the hospital bed, but Abby pushed him back down,
“No, you are not fine. You are staying put in this bed until your blood pressure is back in normal range. I won’t have you fainting on me again.”
Neil flopped back onto the bed with a baleful look, and presented his arm to her. It took three more blood pressure tests before Abby was satisfied enough to dose him up with fever reducers, shepherd him into her car and drive him back to Fox Tower.
She parked excessively close to the front entrance, probably doubting Neil’s ability to walk across a car park without face-planting. “Once I let you out of here, I want you to go straight to bed, rest up, drink plenty of fluids—and before you even think of doing otherwise, know that I will have the others keeping a close eye on you. No Exy until you’re fever-free. In the meantime, I’ll pop by the chemist and get you some more medicine.”
“No need,” Neil said, thinking of the medicine pack Andrew had given him that morning. “I’m sorted. Painkillers, cold and flu meds, the lot. ”
For once, the look on Abby’s face was approving. “Alright. But if you need anything else, or you start feeling worse, don’t hesitate to call me.” She cupped his face gently, brushing a thumb against his fevered cheek. “Get better soon, okay?”
Usually, Abby’s motherly gestures had no effect on him. Perhaps it was the fever making him maudlin, but this time, Neil was taken aback by the lump in his throat and slow ache in his chest. “I will,” he said.
At first glance, the dorm looked to be empty, until Neil spotted the unmoving lump on the top bunk. Andrew must have returned from his drinking spree. It was a relief to know that he wasn’t wreaking violence somewhere, but a silent Andrew was equally troubling.
Neil had promised Andrew that he wouldn’t collapse on the court. He’d spectacularly broken that promise. Involuntarily, but still. It didn’t bode well for Andrew’s reaction. He considered apologising, but a “sorry” would only make things worse, and his brain was too exhausted to come up with anything else.
Andrew hadn’t reacted to Neil’s presence. Either he was giving Neil the silent treatment, or he was stone-cold drunk, neither of which Neil had the power to change. He resigned himself to waiting it out, and crawled into bed. The sheets were blessedly soft against his searing muscles, and it wasn’t long before the weight of exhaustion dragged him under.
Neil awoke to a weight at the foot of his bed, and a weary, monotonous voice.
“You are the epitome of stupid, Neil Josten. I don’t know why I tolerate you.”
“Good evening to you too,” Neil said, or tried to say, before a cough catapulted its way out of his lungs. It tore through his chest like wet, crunching gravel. He collapsed back into his pillow with a wince, and that was when he noticed the knife in Andrew’s hand. His stomach roiled.
“You don’t make things easy for me, you know that, right?” said Andrew, pointing the knife at Neil. His face was pale and haggard, and his hair was sticking every which way, as though he’d only just crawled out of bed. Neil wondered how much he’d had to drink.
“Are you going to skin me?”
“I have been considering it.”
“The fainting wasn’t intentional,” Neil said hoarsely. He wondered what being skinned by Andrew would feel like. Perhaps it wouldn’t be too torturous. It would distract from the pain in his throat, at least.
“Regrettably, otherwise this would be much more simple.” Andrew withdrew the knife and used it to slice at something in his hand. Neil couldn’t tell what it was until Andrew presented him with a freshly-cut orange segment. “Eat this. You sound horrendous.”
“Does this mean you’re not going to skin me?” Neil asked, accepting the fruit.
“Not this time. You’re in enough of a miserable state without my help,” said Andrew.
With a weak grin, Neil propped himself up against the headboard and bit into the orange wedge. It was sweet and juicy and stung a little going down, but he felt himself perk up from the first bite. “It’s good,” he said. Andrew fed him another one.
They sat in comfortable silence, fingers sticky with orange juice. After loading Neil with an entire sliced orange, Andrew brought out another and cut a wedge for himself. He sliced it into little pieces, before popping them into his mouth one by one.
“You’re eating fruit?”
“Your powers of observation never cease to amaze, Josten.”
“You hate fruit.” Andrew hated most things, in fairness, but anything ‘healthy’ was high up on that list.
It wasn’t a question. Andrew didn’t answer. Instead, he glared at Neil and said, “Finish your damn orange before I shove Kevin’s entire vitamin bottle down your throat.”
“Your concern for my health warms my heart,” said Neil. It wasn’t entirely sarcasm.
“Three hundred fucking percent,” Andrew shot back, before climbing off the bed. He grabbed Neil’s remaining orange peels, tossed him a napkin to clean up, and left for the kitchen. With the absence of his familiar weight on the bed, Neil’s legs felt impossibly cold.
He wanted to go after Andrew, to drag him back and convince him to stay. But, with his stomach full, drowsiness was overtaking him once more. Neil was halfway to sleep when footsteps entered his room. A cool cloth was draped over his brow with small hands, wrists banded in black, and Neil drifted off to fingers running through his hair.
His sleep was fragmented, fluctuating between nightmares and waking misery. Between the sandpaper in his throat, intermittent coughing fits and the endless congestion setting up roadblocks in his sinuses, getting comfortable was near impossible.
Eventually, Neil decided to give up on sleep. He hauled himself out of bed, trembling and damp with sweat, and headed shakily into the living room area. It wasn’t a long distance, but the cool air had him clinging his blanket around himself like a burrito tortilla.
Neil’s plan was to play reruns of Exy games on the TV until he could fall back asleep. It tended to work, provided that he kept the volume low enough so as not to summon a sleep-deprived Kevin. But, before he reached the lounge area, the sound of retching stopped him in his tracks.
The noise was coming from the bathroom. Most likely, one of his teammates had gone too heavy on the vodka after tonight’s victory. It wouldn’t have been the first time. Concerned, Neil knocked on the door.
“Fuck off,” came the hoarse reply. The voice sent Neil’s blood running cold.
“Andrew?” When there was no response, Neil slapped on the door. “Andrew, can I come in?”
“Christ Neil, hold on.” There was some coughing and gagging. Then the lock turned and the door creaked open. Neil pushed through to find Andrew sprawled on the linoleum, knuckles white where he was clutching the rim of the toilet bowl. Blond hair was plastered to his brow and an unhealthy flush marred his pale skin. He looked terrible, like he was going through withdrawal all over again.
“Is this a premature hangover?” Neil asked, because he couldn’t imagine why Andrew was getting sick now, all of a sudden.
Andrew lifted his head from the toilet bowl to glare at Neil, though it looked more like a dazed squint. “Has that fever fried all of your brain cells?”
“I thought... Nicky said he saw you drinking earlier.”
“That was Tylenol.”
It took far too long for Neil’s sluggish brain to piece it all together: Andrew’s recent physical distancing; the weariness and post-game nap; the consumption of oranges; the fact that he’d had a pharmacy’s worth of flu meds on hand for Neil. “You’re sick too.”
Andrew heaved into the bowl and groaned, which was answer enough.
“Since when?”
“Three days ago,” Andrew said through gritted teeth. “But got worse after—” He made a vague batting motion with his arm, which could only have meant their gruelling game today.
“Then why did you play?” Neil asked. Andrew wasn’t like Neil. He wouldn’t have sacrificed his health for an Exy game.
But Neil had played. And wherever Neil went, Andrew followed. Neil’s stupidity had gotten them both in this mess. “I’m s—”
“Don’t,” Andrew warned.
Why didn’t you tell me? Neil wanted to ask, but the answer was obvious. Andrew didn’t allow himself to show weakness. Not when it had been used against him since childhood.
Neil wanted to kick himself. Andrew had taken one look at Neil this morning and known that he wasn’t well, and yet, Neil had been completely oblivious to Andrew’s misery. Andrew had been ill for three days, and no one had noticed. No one had helped him.
Had it always been that way?
Maybe it had. But it wasn’t too late to change that.
“What can I do?” Neil asked.
“Go to sleep. Leave me to puke my guts out in peace,” Andrew said testily.
Boundaries were boundaries, but Neil didn’t let himself be deterred. He unravelled himself from his burrito and draped the blanket around Andrew’s trembling shoulders. “Try not to get puke on it. I’ll be in the living room.”
Neil almost regretted sacrificing his blanket when chills wracked his body in protest. Ignoring them valiantly, he stumbled his way into the kitchen and put a pot of water on the boil. Between Kevin’s alcohol collection and the half-crystallised jar of honey at the back of the cupboard, he had all the ingredients he needed.
With a heavy hand on the whiskey, he mixed hot toddies for them both. A spoonful of honey for his, and an unholy amount for Andrew’s. It was a remedy his mother had used, when going to the chemist was too risky and alcohol was the closest thing to medication they had on hand. As far as remedies went, this one was on the medically dubious side. But perhaps it was the comfort of a warm stomach and the reminder of cool, quiet nights that kept Neil coming back to it.
Steaming mugs in both hands, Neil settled on the couch and put Exy on the TV at low volume. When Andrew emerged from the bathroom, looking rumpled and ready for death, Neil patted the space beside him. He yanked back his blanket the moment Andrew sat down, and wrapped it around them both. It was almost worth the wait—Andrew’s body heat had made it toasty-warm.
“Here,” he said, offering Andrew his mug. “It’ll help you sleep.” Andrew accepted it, eyed it suspiciously, and gave a tentative sip. Neil didn’t miss the way his shoulders relaxed at the taste.
“Disgusting,” he declared, to wind Neil up. But the sincerity in his eyes was as close to a smile as Neil could have hoped for. He reached for Andrew’s fingers and gave them a quick squeeze.
“I know. I dumped half a jar of out-of-date honey in it.”
Andrew’s brows furrowed. He stared down at the steaming liquid. “You shouldn’t have.”
“When has sugar ever been a concern for you? Or out of date stuff, for that matter?”
“I told you to go to sleep,” Andrew said, before smothering a cough into his armband.
And Neil realised that he meant the caregiving, not the absurd amount of honey. “I am. Going to sleep,” he said, gazing at Andrew. “Here, on this couch. With you.”
“Like I said. Disgusting,” said Andrew. He placed his mug on the coffee table. Neil half expected him to get up and leave. But, instead, he turned around and tucked his face into Neil’s chest, curling into him like an armadillo.
The three words were left unspoken, but Neil heard them anyway. His heart grew warmer than his stomach. “Yes or no?” he whispered. Andrew nodded into Neil’s chest.
With lips that couldn’t help but smile, Neil peppered Andrew’s feverish head with kisses.
I love you too.
“If I’d known that the flu turned you into a cuddlebug, I would have done this days ago,” Neil murmured aloud.
“Mmph,” Andrew replied sleepily, which translated to fuck you.
They fell asleep wrapped in each other’s arms.
It was late the next morning when Neil awoke. He’d upended himself in the night, half of his body now dangling off the couch. And yet, miraculously, Andrew was still cuddled up against him, face pressed to Neil’s chest, arms wrapped around him like a koala bear.
A glance at the clock showed that morning practice was almost over. None of the Foxes had woken them up for it, most likely out of self-preservation (since Neil remained the only teammate who could wake Andrew without a violent reaction). Neil eased himself back onto the couch, dragging Andrew with him. Andrew was so out of it that he didn’t stir at all, though he did give a soft sigh when Neil tucked the blanket up to his chin. He still looked far from well, all flushed cheeks and bruised under-eyes. Neil suspected that he didn’t look much better himself. He felt awful.
(But he was allowed to feel awful. He was allowed to rest and do nothing except indulge in the company of the person currently sprawled on top of him. He knew that now.)
Neither of them would be returning to the court any time soon. And it occurred to Neil that, for once, he didn’t mind one bit.
🥍🥍🥍