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When Roger wakes on the morning of Christmas Eve, it's with heavy limbs and a scratchy throat. Brian is still asleep next to him, and the box of Christmas decorations that mum lovingly pressed into his arms at the end of her last visit is sitting in a corner and staring, accusingly he thinks, at him. Sticking out his tongue at the box, he grabs his phone and wriggles out from under the warm, heavy nest of duvets and drags himself into the bathroom to rummage through the medicine drawer. In the kitchen he rips open a sachet of cold medicine and pours it into a semi-clean glass that he fills with water, scrolling on his phone while the medicine fizzes and sputters as it dissolves. Once the water has turned a sickly yellow, he is quick to drain the glass. He grimaces at the residue left at the bottom, and gives the glass a quick rinse so Brian doesn’t see. The sachet he crumbles into a ball and buries at the very bottom of the bin.
When he crawls back into bed, Brian’s sleep-heavy limbs instantly wrap around him, and Roger burrows closer, determined to get in some more sleep before the caffeine hits and he’ll be forced to propel his body into action. Brian is waking now, mouth searching Roger’s for a kiss, and Roger guilty lets him, certain he will never be forgiven if he passes on his cold. Instinctively he knows he must hide it at all costs.
“Good morning,” Roger murmurs and gets a sleepy hum and one brown eye peeled open for his trouble. “It’s still there,” he adds, meaning the box.
Brian burrows further under the covers so only the top of his head is visible, and Roger strokes over his hair until his hand is batted away. Letting his hand rest lightly against Brian's back instead, Roger closes his eyes against his creeping headache.
He wakes up again later to a cup of coffee pushed under his nose, and he instinctively turns his head away. He has never felt less like coffee.
“Are my coffee making skills really that bad?” Brian asks, laughter in his voice. The cup is put down on the nightstand next to Roger's head, and a moment later, he hears the window being opened. “It's time to get up. Lots to do today.”
“I’m sure we could postpone it until tomorrow,” Roger says, not opening his eyes.
Brian prods his shoulder. “Not a chance. Five minutes, then I’ll be back for the duvet. Bring the box.”
“Mean,” Roger says, listening to the creak of the floorboards as Brian walks from the bedroom.
WIth Brian gone and the cold air making him retreat his exposed limbs into his safety of the duvet, he tries to ascertain how he feels. Both headache and sore throat are mostly gone, but the caffeine makes his heavy limbs thrum most unpleasantly, and the muscles around his eyes feel tired and tense. He looks at the box with its bulging sides, wonders why he can never do anything before the last possible moment. Counters in his mind that it is not the last possible moment, and that really, the morning of Christmas Eve is the oddest possible time to decorate the flat and the tree.
“One more minute,” Brian calls.
Reluctantly, Roger worms his way out from the duvets, closes the window again and dresses in warm pyjamas and slippers. He remembers the box but leaves the coffee behind, considering briefly if he could smuggle it into the bathroom or throw it in the kitchen sink without Brian seeing, but it seems risky even with Brian as absentminded as he regularly proves to be. As it happens, Brian appears to be deep into the task of manipulating a cloth in between the narrow spaces of the radiator when Roger enters the living room and doesn’t look up.
“What are you doing?” Roger questions mildly, putting down the box and giving it a light kick.
“Cleaning the radiator,” Brian replies, somewhat unnecessarily.
“Ah,” Roger says. “I’ll get started on the keyholes then, shall I?”
“The toilet would be preferable,” Brian says.
“Of course it would,” Roger says with a soft snort. “Well, the toilet I get what with guests coming over tomorrow and all, but are the radiators really necessary? I doubt anyone will notice.”
“My mum will,” Brian says simply, and Roger supposes there’s not much to say to that.
* * *
He has on his Christmas playlist while he scrubs down the bathroom, enduring the dirtying feel of rubber gloves and the fits of sneezing when he accidentally sprays on too much bathroom cleaner. By the time he is done, Brian has moved on to the skirting boards, and both dinner table and coffee table are still littered with books and paper and chargers and an elephant shaped novelty condom that Roger is quick to pocket. He feels dirty after cleaning the bathroom and vows to take a shower before food and decorating, preferably in that order, and while he would usually be quick to declare the need for a break after such a taxing task, he has a feeling it would only postpone the decorating far into the afternoon when all he wants is to go back to bed with Brian and watch Gilmore Girls on the projector.
And so he pauses Wham! blasting from his pocket and instead turns up the volume on the radio, stealing a kiss from Brian on the way. He begins the task of tidying, first the books that he slots onto shelves in their approximate places, then the papers into piles of ‘save’, ‘bin’ and ‘ask Brian’, the latter of which ends up being the only pile, and then goes to work on the rest of the things littered around their living space. Brian has deemed all nooks and crannies acceptable and moved onto the kitchen by the time he's done, and so Roger sweeps and washes the floors and listens to Brian's soft singing along to the radio.
It's as he's emptying the bucket of soap and warm water into the toilet that he realises just how poorly he's beginning to feel. His limbs are positively aching and the fabric of his pyjamas clings to his warm skin, but worst of all is the feeling of his throat, no longer scratchy but raw and burning. Putting down the empty bucket, he turns on the shower and strips off his clothes.
When he steps under the hot spray, he can't help but sag. The water is warm and pleasant against his skin, but he feels equally poorly, nauseous and pained and heavy in the head. Counting back to when he first took the cold medicine, he is not surprised that he feels like shit, and turns off the water quicker than he would have liked to towel off and retrieve his coffee cup from the bedroom.
“Roger?” Brian says, almost bumping into him when he exits the bedroom. “You’re already done? I was gonna join you.”
“Sorry,” Roger says, “I was so hungry suddenly. I’ll heat up some leftovers for when you’re done?”
“Alright,” Brian says. He cocks his head. “How hot did you shower? You look all flushed.”
Roger forces a grin. “Hotter than you can handle, I’m sure. Be quick!”
Brian shakes his head and reaches inside the bathroom for the empty bucket, which Roger accepts with a mock salute and without spilling his coffee.
As soon as Brian is out of sight, however, the forced cheer melts off Roger, and he drags himself into the kitchen, setting down the bucket and emptying his cup into the newly scrubbed sink. It is with a whimper he realises that he forgot to bring the cold medicine from the bathroom, and for long minutes he just sags against the counter. When he hears the water shutting off in the bathroom, he forces himself into motion.
* * *
“We should start with the actual decorations rather than the tree, don’t you think so?” Brian is asking some ten minutes later, slurping reheated thai noodles into his mouth.
“Sounds good,” Roger says and reaches for the chili sauce, hoping to at least sweat out his cold now that he’s been unable to steal off to the bathroom.
“How many people again? Freddie and John are arriving earlier with the chairs, and there’s your mum and Clare …” Brian pauses to scribble down something on his still growing to do list. “And since we’re the only ones not making food, we really should have a go at the pudding tonight. I know my mum is bringing dessert as well, but we do have all the ingredients and now the cleaning is done we’re right on schedule.” Brian looks up, a look of concern suddenly on his face. “Are you alright? You still look a bit flushed.”
Roger gestures to the chili sauce. “‘S hot.”
Brian pushes his glass across the table. Roger wrinkles his nose and shakes his head, but the movement hurts, and it must show on his face because Brian suddenly reaches out a hand that Roger only narrowly avoids by leaning far back in his seat.
“I know you’re sick,” Brian says, clicking and unclicking his pen.
Bugger. “It took you a week to notice my glasses but this you notice?” Roger asks petulantly.
“Why didn’t you say so? You’ve been cleaning all day,” Brian says, completely ignoring Roger’s point.
“You hate being sick,” Roger says, poking at his food. “And if you didn’t know I was sick, you wouldn’t be able to blame me when you inevitably got sick, too.”
Brian lets out a soft snort. “I would blame you even if you weren’t sick, you know this.” He reaches for Roger’s hand, and Roger lets him take it. He is silent a beat. “Really?”
“No, I don’t mind when you blame me, I think it’s funny,” Roger replies, “but we had to do this, didn’t we? It’s Christmas tomorrow, no time to be sick.”
“I would’ve--” Brian begins, but Roger interrupts.
“I know,” he says, squeezing Brian’s hand. “Maybe now that you’re in on my secret you won’t mind if I take a nap on the couch while you finish your lists?”
“I think that sounds like a good idea,” Brian says, scraping his chair back and returning soon after with a glass of juice and two paracetamol. “Are you done eating?”
Roger nods, lets Brian take his plate and knocks back the painkillers before he makes his way to the couch where he collapses in a grateful heap. A moment later, a heavy duvet covers him, and Brian presses a kiss to his mouth.
“You’re warm,” he says, resting a cool hand on Roger’s forehead.
“I’m hot,” Roger corrects him in a mumble.
“That too,” Brian agrees and kisses him again before he gets up. Within moments, Roger is asleep.
* * *
He sleeps restlessly, drifting in and out of sleep. Every time he wakes, new decorations have been put up. At one point, the fairy lights have been turned on, at another Brian is humming along to the radio and putting stars Roger recognises from his childhood home in the windows. His juice glass has been moved to the coffee table and magically refilled. Even the tree is slowly getting dressed, and Roger marvels at the transformation before sleep reclaims him.
Many hours later, Roger sits up, suddenly awake. It is dark outside, how late he doesn’t know. His throat is still raw and achy and he gulps down the juice gratefully, but his head feels better, and the living room looks festive and beautiful and he misses Brian. He’s also hungry, and so he wanders into the kitchen. There he finds Brian pouring hot water over instant ramen, and Roger’s heart swells.
“You’re awake,” Brian says and puts down the kettle to accept a hug from Roger. “How are you feeling?”
“Hungry,” Roger replies, burying his face in Brian’s neck. “It’s really nice.”
“Yeah?” Brian is smiling when Roger pulls away to look at him. He looks happy and pleased and a little like Roger’s approval means the world.
Roger nods firmly and smiles back. “Tomorrow will be really good.”