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Achilles doesn’t find out that Pat is sick right away.
When he boards the team bus for a track meet three hours away on Friday after class, he fully expects to see Pat cheering him on in the stands with Bri when he runs.
But when they line up for his first race, he doesn’t see the familiar head of brown curls anywhere. His first thought is that Pat couldn’t make it. Maybe, he supposes, Pat got held up in traffic; or maybe he lost track of time studying for his upcoming nursing exam.
There’s no reason to panic yet. So Achilles tamps down his slight disappointment and runs.
But by his final race, neither Pat nor Bri have shown. Achilles isn’t sure what to think. Since they’ve known each other Pat has been at every meet cheering him on. So whatever happened must have been outside of his control.
That thought brings him anything but comfort. Achilles barely registers when the awards are handed out, his thoughts now racing with concern for his boyfriend.
When the team is boarding the bus to head back to campus, he heads straight for a secluded seat to call Pat. There’s no answer, and it only furthers Achilles’ spiraling thoughts of the most far-fetched horrors. If Pat were here, Achilles knows he’d be laughing at his dramatics. It almost makes him smile. But Pat isn’t here, and where is he?
It goes to voicemail, and Achilles waits for the robot-lady’s voice to stop. “Patroclus,” he says, full-naming Pat both so that he’ll know how serious he is and to steady himself a little. The slow way he draws out Pat’s name always brings a smile to Pat’s face, and Achilles’ in turn because he knows that Pat only lets him call him by it.
“Babe. I don’t know why you didn’t show today, or why you’re not answering your phone, but if I get back and you fell asleep studying or something I’m gonna be really pissed. So please be okay, because I’d rather be annoyed and have to drag you out of the lab than have you be not okay because something happened. Love you.”
He ends the message with a pang in his chest like dread. He tries Bri next, and to his relief, she answers after the fifth ring.
“Achilles, listen,” she says, in lieu of hello. “I’m sorry we missed your meet,” he thinks she says. But wherever she is filled with people talking in the background, and she’s clearly struggling with something, both of which drown out her voice. To top it all off, the connection is spotty, owing to his current location in a bus on some random country backroad.
“Bri, where are you? Is Pat with you?” He’s white-knuckling the seat in front of him in his anticipation.
“What? I’m sorry, Achilles, I can’t hear you. It’s really loud in here,” she practically shouts into his ear. He winces and pulls the phone away a few inches. “Where are you?” he tries again, this time slower and more pronounced.
“What? You’re breaking up,” she says.
Before Achilles can respond, all the chaos on the other end ceases. He checks his phone again. Disconnected. Of course.
He sighs and tries Pat again. Still no answer.
He drops his phone onto the seat and groans, running his hands through his hair in frustration. Achilles tucks his legs up onto the seat and prepares himself for a long ride back to campus.
As soon as the bus rolls to a stop outside the school nearly five hours later (fucking rush hour traffic), Achilles bolts out of his seat and out the door, already heading back to his and Pat’s dorm.
He fumbles with his key for a moment before he gets it unlocked, nerves beating his usual steady composure. He was fine this morning, Achilles reminds himself.
He finally gets the door open, roughly shoving his strewn clothes out of the way with it. Panic flares up again when he finds the room empty. He’s about to storm over to Bri’s dorm next, but as soon as he turns he’s met with a sight that freezes him to his spot.
Pat, paler than Achilles has ever seen him, nearly collapsed against Bri’s shorter form, his eyes barely open. A bright white hospital bracelet stands out starkly to the tan skin of his wrist.
Achilles is moving before his mind catches up.
“Pat!” Achilles is already there, picking Pat up bridal-style from Bri’s surrendering grip.
“Achilles,” Pat mumbles, struggling to open his eyes.
“Shh, I’m here.” This, quietly, to Pat as he lays him down on their beds they’ve pushed together. “What’s wrong with him?” This, louder and with more urgency, to Bri where she still stands tiredly in the doorway.
“We were about to leave for your meet when he started throwing up in the parking lot."
Achilles furrows his brows in confusion. “But why did he have to go to the hospital for that?” he asks, gesturing vaguely to the band on Pat’s wrist.
“He was throwing up blood, Achilles.”
The color drains from his face. “What?”
Bri nods, and collapses herself into the bean bag near the TV. “Yeah. It was pretty fucking terrifying. And I’m usually pretty good in a crisis.” She throws her head back and closes her eyes, runs a hand over her face and through her hair.
“So what’s wrong with him?” Achilles demands, nowhere near relaxed or able to sit still.
Bri looks up. “A stomach virus, apparently. The doctor said it’s been going around. Nasty, but it should go away within a week or so.” She tries to sound blasé, but her face is scrunched in a mixture of disgust and worry.
“Should?” Achilles is still not reassured. A virus that makes you throw up blood doesn’t seem like the kind of thing that’ll just go away. And Pat never gets sick. That he should suddenly catch something so violent all of a sudden doesn’t sit well with Achilles.
Bri laughs, but it comes out humorless and tired. “Yes, Achilles. Should. But there’s not much we can do yet. They wrote him a prescription, but it’s mostly to keep the fever down. And he needs to rest. But they wouldn’t do anything else unless it gets more serious.”
“More serious?!” He’s pacing the tiny dorm now, anger and worry a storm inside of him. “This is bullshit, Bri. I can’t believe they’d send him home like this,” he nearly yells, throwing an arm out in Pat’s general direction.
A quiet groan comes from the cocoon of blankets on the bed.
Achilles is by Pat’s side in a flash, pushing the blankets down and putting his hands on Pat’s heated cheeks. “I’m sorry, did I wake you? Shit, you’re really warm, babe.” But as he says this, Pat shivers.
“’m cold,” he mumbles, his eyes fluttering between opened and closed. “Your hands feel nice,” he says, smiling faintly for a moment.
Achilles laughs too, despite the worry eating at him. “You’re a mess,” he whispers, gently brushing Pat’s sweaty hair back from his face.
“This is really gross and all, but I have to get Sicky’s drugs,” Bri says from behind them, the beanbag audible as she stands. “Try not to have a heart attack while I’m gone, Achilles.” He doesn’t look up from Pat as he flips her off.
The door closes behind her, and Pat lays a shaky hand over Achilles’. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice hoarse from being sick.
Achilles cocks his head to the side and lifts an eyebrow, utterly lost on Pat. “Sorry? For nearly dying?” And he flinches as he says it, the words too harsh and too real from the panic he’d felt all day – that he still feels.
“For missing your meet,” Pat says.
Achilles feels his heart practically melt. “Oh my god, you are infuriatingly cute sometimes. I’m not upset that you missed my race. I just want you to be okay.”
Pat smiles again, this time a little bit stronger. “I’ll be fine. Love you, Achilles.”
“I love you too,” he says, smiling back.
“Yeah, you must. I’m gross right now,” Pat says, frowning adorably in distaste.
Achilles rolls his eyes and pushes the comforter back, climbing in next to Pat.
“No, don’t. I don’t wanna get you sick,” comes the predictable protests.
Achilles ignores his protests, snuggling up to him instead. “I’m not worried. You’re not the one who usually gets sick; maybe I’ll miss this one.”
That only has Pat trying to push himself up to look at Achilles with an incredulous look. “That’s not how it works! You don’t have to be in nursing school to know that.”
Achilles laughs and gently forces Pat back down to the pillows. “You’re too intense sometimes.”
Pat snorts and says, “Yeah, I’m the intense one here. How was your day? Bet you were totally relaxed when I didn’t show up at your race.”
“Mhmm,” Achilles lies.
“Didn’t worry at all?”
“Nope.”
Pat puts a hand on Achilles’ face and guides it until they’re gazing at each other. “Liar,” Pat whispers.
“I am,” Achilles admits, dropping his gaze to the white bracelet still on Pat’s wrist. He frowns at it and quietly says, “I was terrified. I was three hours away and I didn’t know what happened; I just knew you weren’t okay.”
And Pat is here, conscious and acting mostly like himself. But Achilles can’t let go of the fear that gripped him all day as he waited to come back and find out the worst.
“Hey,” Pat says, gripping Achilles’ chin with more force, his hand no longer shaking. He waits until Achilles meets his eyes. “I’m okay. It’s just a virus.”
Achilles holds up a palm to Pat and, completely serious, says, “Swear it.”
Pat doesn’t laugh, because he knows how worried Achilles still is, but he smiles as he lifts his other hand from the bed and places it against Achilles’. Neither of them comment on how Pat’s is somehow steadier than Achilles’.
“I promise.”
Some of the pressure in Achilles’ chest lifts, finally.
A thought strikes him then. Pat raises an eyebrow, already knowing from the mischievous grin that whatever it is isn’t good.
“Maybe I should invite Agamemnon over, see if he gets sick.”
Pat whacks his chest, and Achilles laughs and catches his hand before he can pull it away. “Kidding. Mostly.”
Pat rolls his eyes and pulls the blanket higher over them both. “Sure, babe. I’m going to sleep now.”
Achilles grins and plays with Pat’s hair until his breathing evens out. It’s a steady rhythm that finally has Achilles relaxing enough to fall asleep, too.