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Mischa was the first to notice that something was wrong. It was a choir practice on a Friday, meaning it happened at the beginning of the day instead of the end. Constance and Ocean were at the front of the room, casually discussing an assignment for history class while Ricky and Penny snickered and scrolled through Vine compilations in the back. Father Markus watched over the choir with a wistful look in his eyes, half out of it as usual.
None of that was what Mischa nervous.
No, what was freaking him out was that Noel was slumped in a pile on a desk, head down on his arm as he snored, a string of drool dripping from his lower lip. His face was pale and pasty, a harsh contrast from the poet’s usually well put together appearance. His hair was a mess, and his eyelids drooped, half-covering the hazel orbs that normally sparkled with all the tragic beauty of a fall day drifting into the cold and unforgiving arms of winter.
Something was clearly wrong, and everyone else was so lost in their own worlds to notice.
”Poet?” Mischa grunted, stalking over and tucking away his phone. “You look off.”
Noel looked up. It seemed as if it took all the effort in the world just to lift his head. “I’m fine. Just tired.” His voice sounded hoarse, like he’d been yelling all day, and his nose was whistling from congestion with every breath he took. Mischa’s brow furrowed in concern.
“You need sleep.” He chided. “Why did you even come to school?”
Noel didn’t look like he cared to explain. With a groan, he admitted: “My car broke down and Constance is my ride to and from work. If I didn’t come to school, she’d have had to pick me up all the way across town.”
Mischa was appalled that his boyfriend was planning on going to work after an already long day. “Oh come on, Noel! You need to rest so you can get better! At least tell me you took pain medication?”
He shook his head. “We don’t have any. That stuff is expensive, and ever since mum got laid off we’ve had to budget big-time.” He placed his head back down on the desk, yawning.
Mischa went straight over to Ocean. “Tell old man I am leaving to take Poet home. He is sick.”
Ocean frowned. “He came to school. If he showed up he must be okay.”
”He gave me some lame-ass excuse. My boy needs bed-rest.” Mischa insisted. Call him what you would: bad boy, asshat, dumbass. What he was was a protective boyfriend.
”Fine, but hurry back. Don’t think you’re skipping choir because of this!” Ocean whined. “Bring him home, put him in bed, come right back!”
Mischa tapped Noel on the shoulder. “Come on, I’m driving you home.”
Noel lazily gazed up again. “I told you I’ll be fine.”
“Too bad I don’t agree.” Mischa took Noel’s hand and thumbed at his palm. “Your hands are so cold, they must be numb.” Noel rested his head against Mischa’s shoulder.
It was then that Mischa realized just how ice-cold Noel’s entire body was. He was trembling. “Come on, Noel.” He begged. “Call out sick.” He helped stable the ill boy’s body, stroking his beautiful but knotted hair.
Noel’s glazed eyes met Mischa’s. Wordlessly, Mischa continued to beg. He breathed a sigh of relief as Noel finally cracked a small smile. “Fine.”
He allowed Mischa to walk him out of school and into the parking lot, where they located and unlocked Mischa’s Honda Civic, its bumper scarred with evidence of Mischa’s minimal parallel parking skills. Noel climbed into the passenger seat, his head falling onto the window.
Mischa kept glancing at him as they drove, as if he could keel over and die at any moment. Of course, he didn’t, he just looked miserable the whole time. “Poet?”
”Mhm?”
”Do you want me to stay with you today?”
Noel lifted his head up to shake it and put it back down. “If you think that because I’m sick, I’m deaf, you’re dead wrong. I heard what Ocean said. She’ll flip out!”
Mischa grinned. “Let her flip out, then. I am going to take care of my poet.”
They pulled into Noel’s driveway. He and his mum lived in a small, cape-style house. It was pale grey in colour with a navy blue door. The yard was overgrown, the concerete in the driveway cracked and weathered from years of use. The paint on the siding was chipped, and cobwebs hung in the corners.
“Home.” Noel breathed. He weakly pressed open the door. Mischa helped him stumble into the house—his mum wasn’t home, but Noel took his keys with him everywhere.
Noel led Mischa into his bedroom. Ever since his father had left, Noel had been using the master bedroom. His mother had no use for it. It was big, but not too big. The walls were a rich wine red, heavy velvet curtains hung from the windows. Noel’s bed was a queen-sized four-poster with a thick grey bedspread. There was a fluffy, shaggy rug covering the hardwood floor, and an antique vanity was positioned in front of a window.
Noel sat down on his bed. “You can go now.” He told Mischa. “Thank you for the ride.”
Mischa sat down beside him, draping an arm over his shoulder. “Go put some comfy clothes on. I will make you tea.” He insisted. Noel stood and walked over to the dresser, pulled out a pair of flannel pajama pants and a white t-shirt with a rose on it. “Happy?”
“Yeah. Now put clothes on.” Mischa replied, standing up. “I will not watch, do not worry.” He slipped out of the bedroom, back down the stairs, and into the kitchen.
Mischa quickly located the teacups—Noel had a habit of impulse-buying them at flea markets and yard sales—and the boxes of tea selections. There was earl grey, chamomile, lavender, something called throat-coat, and peppermint. Mischa selected the lavender tea, having remembered Constance telling him that lavender was good for making you sleepy. He picked out a white teacup decorated with roses and violets, dug out a tea kettle, filled it, and set it on the stove. When the kettle started whistling, he poured the boiling water into the teacup, then put in the teabag. Proud of himself (Constance had just taught him how to do this a week or so ago) he let the teabag steep and then pulled it out, adding a few drops of milk and honey. Carefully, he took it up the stairs.
He found Noel under the covers, propping his head up on the pillow. He had a weighted blanket draped over his legs, and a throw blanket wrapped around his upper body. Mischa gently handed him the tea, kissing his forehead while he was at it.
“I will stay with you, okay?” Mischa sat down on the bed once again.
“No! You’ll get sick.” Noel pointed out. “I don’t want to get you sick.”
”It is okay. I do not mind as long as it gives me excuse to be with you.”
Noel took a sip of tea, then another, and another, before moving the teacup to his nightstand and inviting Mischa under the covers. Mischa laid down, pulling Noel into an embrace. He watched the boy’s eyes through his dark lashes, and when they finally shut, Mischa gave him a little kiss on the nose.
“I will stay here as long as you need.”