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“Come on Chase, you have to eat something .” Riley persisted. “At least drink some water.”
“Riles, I'm fineeee. I'll eat when my body tells me to, you don't have to worry about me.” Chase was currently lying on his bed, voice slightly shaky and very nasally, his accent mixing with the sickness in a way that if you hadn't seen him walking around and making sarcastic quips you'd assume he was on his deathbed.
This conversation had gone on and on for several days now. Chase constantly ensures Riley that “he was fine” and “can take care of himself” despite ignoring all of his needs. Riley had to admit it was infuriating at times, seeing someone he cares about just… destroy themselves. (maybe that was a tiny exaggeration but he was worried ok? Cut him some slack.)
“Honey, I love you, but your body is fucking terrible at ‘telling you when to eat’. I've lost count of the number of times you've forgotten to eat breakfast. Stay here, I’m making you a sandwich.”
“Riley, you don’t have to-” Whatever Chase was about to say was interrupted by a coughing fit.
“…I’ll get you some medicine too.”