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alejandro doesn’t get sick. burromuertos don’t get sick, but here he is, in bed, with a wet cloth over his head. he didn’t want to get sick, but with plane rides and airports, you never know. luckily, he had a savior by his side.
“are you feeling better?” the voice said.
it was raspy, and of a medium pitch. a bit monotone as well, but he was in no position to turn away a companion. alejandro wanted to reply, he really did, but when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a horrible groan and a series of throat-burning coughs. gross.
the boy beside him let out a hum and handed him a glass of water. who is this mysterious figure? why is he being so kind? alejandro couldn’t seem to remember. the last he remembered he was with noah… was that who this was? noah? jesus, he hoped so.
“you alright? you look like you’re in a trance.. can you hear me?”
he could hear him, he wanted to say that, but his voice wouldn’t cooperate. the most alejandro could do in the moment was each out a tanned, calloused hand to squeeze the other’s. it seemed to get the message across, and the boy squeezed back.
his vision was beginning to clear up, the fog settling at the edges of his eyes, giving him a tunnel of clear view. he looked up at the figure and… oh my god.
“noah?” he whispered hoarsely.
the boy nodded, and alejandro smiled. it was his love, his amor, here with him. the water had been a relief, but not cure, unfortunately. there was something scratching against his back. “cerebrito, my back, please…” he quietly requested.
like clockwork, noah adjusted his shirt and placed a pillow beneath him, and alejandro realised something.
he’d never love another like he loved him.