Chapter Text
February 2017
They’d lived in the White House Residence almost a month, and Alex still didn’t know where the cups were. He slammed a cabinet shut and moved onto the next one.
June paused in the doorway. “Whatcha doing?”
He looked up, startled. “Looking for a fuckin’ cup.” His voice sounded like he’d been eating gravel.
“You sound like shit.” She shoved past him, stood on her toes to reach a cabinet, and handed him a glass.
He wiped his nose on the sleeve of his faded high school lacrosse hoodie. “I’m fide.” He turned away, coughing roughly into his arm.
“Oh, gross.” She reached into another cabinet and opened a bag of Milano cookies. “I thought you were feeling better.” She watched Alex pour orange juice.
“I thought so, too.” He took a cautious sip. “Hit a wall on my way home.” His backpack laid on the counter. He opened a pocket for the DayQuil he’d bought at the campus quick mart and swallowed it with a tiny sip of orange juice. He coughed again. “Ugh…Jesus.”
She hopped up onto the counter next to him and ate another cookie. “That acid’s killing your throat, dude,” she said. “I’ll make you some tea. It’ll make you feel better.”
“I don’t want any leaf water, thank you.” He dumped his juice down the sink and filled it with water and drank it.
She swung her sock feet. “You think you got a fever?”
“No.”
“Have you checked?”
“No.”
June sighed. “Then how do you know?”
“Quit mothering me.”
She held her bag of Milanos out. “Want a cookie?”
He took one and leaned against the counter next to her. He looked exhausted. “I’ll be okay.” He took a bite of his cookie. “I…I, uh, I’m almost done with this essay.”
“You’re doing homework?”
“I’ve got a stupid paper due for my fucking sociology class--” he doubled over coughing again, deep and rough and painful.
She moved his glass away from the edge of the counter. “You’re gonna fucking break something. Possibly a rib.”
“Possibly.” He sighed. He ran a hand through his hair. “Shit…I…might actually have a fever.”
She handed him his water. “And you think you’ll write a coherent essay tonight?”
He pressed his cold glass to his forehead. “I can bullshit anything. Give me an hour…I can bang out an A-, B+ essay on just about anything. It’s my main talent.”
“So that’s how you became valedictorian?"
“Precisely.” He drank the rest of his water. His sister’s hand landed on the top of his head, and he groaned. “The fuck you doing?”
She pressed her soft hand to his cheek. He flinched; his whole face was tender. “I think you’re actually dying.”
“Wonderful.” Death sounded preferable. A nice, long, endless sleep. Dark. Quiet.
“C’mon.” She hopped down.
“Huh?”
“You are gonna go put on comfy clothes,” She said. “I’m gonna call downstairs--the Physician to the President is for us too, remember?” He knew that. “And we’re gonna ask the chef to make us grilled cheese for dinner, and we’ll watch a movie.” She picked up his backpack. “All of this can wait until you’ve got something stronger than DayQuil in your system.”