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Andrew is quiet. That's the first thing Neil notices.
He tends to be, at least in the presence of other people. Not around Neil, though. Not nearly as much. The only time Neil can remember Andrew going completely silent around him was when they came back from Baltimore.
So. Andrew's silence raises the first red flag. Not enough, by itself, to raise any real suspicion, but enough for Neil to notice, enough to leave him primed for other signs of trouble.
Which come soon enough. He's just returned from his morning run, damp with sweat and alive with energy, when the bedroom door creaks open to spit Andrew out into the living room. His hair is tousled from sleep, his pillow printed into his cheek, which is flushed an unnatural shade of red. He drags his feet on the way to the kitchen, and Neil double-checks the time — usually, by the time he gets back, Andrew is already halfway through his first cup of coffee and dressed to go.
Today, he nudges his way past a bleary-eyed but no less disgruntled Kevin to flip on the pot, and stands completely still while it gurgles to life.
They have fifteen minutes to get to the gym, and Andrew is still in his pajamas.
He makes it, somehow, slurping down his coffee like a man starved while they make their way to the car. Neil keeps his eyes glued to the way his hands clamp around the steering wheel the entire ride there.
But he seems fine once they've hit the machines, lifting his usual with concentrated ease, so Neil puts it out of his mind. A bad morning, perhaps. Nightmares.
Eight people are missing from his algebra class, all out with the flu. "It's been making the rounds," the girl next to him laments to her friend. "My roommate's got it as well, and she's gonna give it to me for sure."
Neil twirls his pen between his fingers and thinks.
He returns to an empty dorm, both Andrew and Kevin in class until an hour before practice, and dumps his bag on the couch before moving on to the kitchen. He's got a bowl of cherries from the fridge and is halfway to his desk across the room when he realizes the dorm is not empty at all — the pile of blankets on the bean bag chair is, on second glance, not a pile but Andrew tucked in to his chin, asleep.
On any other day, Neil might have wasted a few thoughts on how careless the comfortable life in Palmetto has made him, that he would miss a whole body in the room with him. Today, though, he just crosses the room and peers down at Andrew's flushed face.
He's supposed to be in class for another two hours. Andrew may not care much for this degree, but he's also not usually the type to skip. He's also not usually a napper, as opposed to Neil.
This, combined with his untypical silence, the rough start to the day and the general agreement that the flu is going around on campus, has Neil's brow furrowing in concern.
He does not touch him, but crouches down beside the bean bag to bring himself to eye level. "Andrew," he says, which is normally enough to rouse him. He's as light a sleeper as Neil now that he's sober. Now, though, it takes a few more tries before his lids start twitching, and he pries open his eyes to stare wearily at Neil. It may be a trick of the light, but even the golden flecks of his irises seem muted to Neil.
"Are you alright?" Neil asks
Andrew raises a brow, though his usual sarcasm falls flat in face of the general state he's in. He lets his head drop back against the bean bag and says nothing.
Neil wracks his brain. He has no real experience with taking care of sick people. His mother never got sick in any significant way on the run, and the only times she ever enlisted his help was when she needed stitching up. Neil doubts, somehow, that his proficiency at cleaning and suturing wounds would come in handy with the flu.
He does remember being sick himself a few times, though, and tries to draw on his memories of that.
"Would you like some tea?" he asks, and takes the grumbling noise Andrew makes in return as an affirmative.
Neil is the only person in this dorm who drinks tea, so the only variety they have is the Earl Grey he prefers. He's not ecstatic about the taste itself, but it reminds him of better years with his mother. He brews some and stirs what would seem to any normal person an unreasonable amount of sugar and some milk into it, and delivers it to an already half-sleeping Andrew.
He pulls a face at the first sip he takes, but dutifully finishes half the cup before he sets it down and huddles back into his blanket, eyes shutting.
Kevin is expectedly grumpy when Neil announces that Andrew won't make it to practice. They tiptoe around the living room on their way out, and Neil drives them to the court.
Practice is alright but slightly more boring without Andrew, and the others don't ask many questions about his absence once Neil declares he isn't feeling well. He catches Nicky and Aaron exchanging a few glances, but they stay quiet.
Back at the dorm, Neil rouses Andrew just long enough to ask about dinner, but receives no real answer.
Kevin grabs his leftovers from the fridge before jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the door. "I'm gonna go before I catch whatever he has," he says, and disappears. Probably to Matt's dorm, if Neil had to guess.
Neil stands alone in the kitchen, staring at the meagre contents of their fridge. He remembers consuming a lot of broth from his rare sick days, but if Andrew hasn't eaten since at least lunch, he could probably do with something more substantial than that.
He spends half an hour assembling what he hopes constitutes as ingredients for an actual meal, and dumps all of it into a pot with some water. He's no chef, still, having survived mostly on canned and instant food most of his life and now relying on the university's meal plan, and he's not sure the meat and vegetables are supposed to crumble together like this, but he tries.
A few coughs from the living room, sounding raw and painful where they scrape through Andrew's throat, startle him into looking over every so often. But Andrew stays on the bean bag, and Neil makes himself refocus on his creation.
He's still stirring in hopes of it solidifying into something edible when the door clicks open. Neil looks up to find Aaron stalking across the room towards the bean bags, and Nicky sticking his head into the kitchenette with a smile.
"Cooking?" Nicky enters the kitchen fully, and swings the plastic bang dangling from his wrist up onto the counter. "What'cha makin'?" he asks, though the excitement fades out of his voice when he takes a peek into the pot and adds, "Ooooh …"
Neil gives the colorless sludge another half-hearted poke.
"You know what, Neil," Nicky says, putting on what Neil would describe as his brave face, and pats Neil on the shoulder. "Why don't you go check on Andrew, hm? I brought some stuff to cook."
Neil is glad to surrender the kitchen to Nicky. Back in the living room, he finds Aaron perched on the edge of the armchair he's dragged close to Andrew's bean bag. He has his own plastic bag sitting by his feet, and a pill bottle in the hand he's outstretching towards Andrew.
Andrew's awake again, though he stares unspeaking, unblinking at Aaron from out of his blanket cocoon, and makes no move for the bottle.
"I don't give a shit," Aaron says when Neil steps closer. "Take them or leave them, asshole. But they'll help."
He looks like he may give a shit, Neil thinks but doesn't say. Aaron is a beast too easily provoked to bring Neil much entertainment anymore. Especially not on a day like this.
Neil crouches on Andrew's other side and catches his gaze. He still looks pale where the flush hasn't consumed him, and while he fixes his gaze on Neil, it seems almost empty of its usual intent. When Neil raises a questing hand, Andrew gives a barely perceptible nod, and allows Neil to fuss with his blankets until he's tucked in as tight as possible.
It's good to do something, Neil thinks. The movement of his hands works to dispel some of the lingering anxiety.
"It's just a mild flu," Aaron says, like he's caught onto Neil's thoughts. He looks bored when Neil flicks his gaze toward him. "Kate had it too, and a bunch of the other cheerleaders. Keep him fed and hydrated and get him to take these meds if you can, and he should be better in a few days at most."
Neil takes the pill bottle Aaron hands over and tucks it into the pocket of his hoodie before he turns back to Andrew, whose eyes have drifted shut again.
The flu. Neil already knew that, but the confirmation is nice. He reaches up to brush the tips of his fingers over Andrew's hot forehead and watches his lids flutter.
He thinks he got the flu once, somewhere in the south of France. He doesn't remember it well, the memories clouded with fever, but he thinks he must have caught it from the family they’d crashed with for a couple of days. They had shaken his father's trail for what seemed like for good at the time, and his mother was unexpectedly gentle while the shivers wracked him.
He was young still, perhaps twelve or thirteen, and always has been small for his age. He remembers her lifting him out of the car, tucking his head under her chin as she carried him into the house and put him to bed. Her hands were soft and familiar as she brushed back his hair and fed him broth and medicine, the line of her mouth hard with a worry that feels, in retrospect, misplaced. Much more dangerous things were hunting them at the time than a simple flu, but he figures it was not easy for his mother to see him ailing in any way.
His safety was, after all, the reason she finally tore herself loose and ran.
Neil fusses with the blanket around Andrew's shoulders some more and tries not to dwell on what being sick must have been like for Andrew as a child. Alone and weakened and at the mercy of ill-intentioned adults.
His thoughts are interrupted by Nicky stepping out of the kitchen with two steaming bowls balanced in his hands. He hands one to Aaron and Neil each before doubling back for the remaining two. Neil nudges Andrew awake again, regrettably, and helps him untangle his arms from the blanket so he can hold the bowl.
Nicky smiles when Andrew takes a sip and grunts his approval, though Neil fears it looks a tad bit melancholy around the corners.
Neil takes a sip of the broth himself, discovering a gentle heat beneath the saltiness that warms him to his core.
"Mom used to make this for me when I was sick," Nicky says, and his smile has gone completely. "It's one of the things I miss most about home, probably."
Nicky doesn't talk about his parents much at all anymore. Not since Thanksgiving, and certainly not since Aaron's trial. Neil can't remember the last time he heard Nicky call Maria Hemmick mom rather than my mother.
Nicky shakes his head as if to dislodge the thoughts clouding his gaze, and paints on a fresh grin. "Anyway. It's always made me feel better right away."
Andrew keeps his eyes on Nicky while he finishes every last drop of the soup. Something fresh and new pulls at the corners of Nicky's mouth when he gets up to clear the dishes.
Nicky and Aaron take their leave not soon after, Aaron not without another pointed glance at the pill bottle in Neil's pocket, and the door shuts gently behind them.
Kevin makes no reappearance, so Neil is left to moving Andrew to the bedroom himself. It's not hard, in the end — Andrew pushes himself to his feet at the suggestion and only takes a short break once he's up, swaying forward enough for Neil to step closer as a precaution. Andrew uses the opportunity to press his forehead to Neil's shoulder for a brief moment. He's burning hot through Neil's shirt, and the cloying anxiety Neil thinks might be worry makes a return to his throat.
Andrew draws back up to stand, closes his eyes for a few more seconds, and starts shuffling towards the bedroom. Neil follows only a step behind, making sure he doesn't stumble over his trailing blanket and otherwise go down, and makes sure he's properly settled into Neil's bottom bunk before he returns to the kitchen to fill up a tall glass of water.
"How do you feel about the meds?" he asks when he's back at Andrew's side.
Andrew rolls his eyes — and the winces at the movement — but seems more willing to take them with Aaron gone. Neil spends a moment inspecting the label, finding it to promise fever and congestion relief, before he shakes two into his palm and offers them to Andrew.
He intended for Andrew to reach up and take them, slide them under his tongue himself, but Andrew, perhaps in a fit of delirium, simply puts his lips to Neil's palm like a horse and picks them up with his mouth.
Neil stands and stares for a moment, feeling the damp, warm spot in the center of his hand where Andrew's mouth touched him like a signal flare, and his stomach does a flip that has his cheeks flaring with a heat comparable to Andrew's fever-hot skin. He blinks himself out of his reverie and hands him the water.
Andrew seems unperturbed. He gulps down most of the water, seeming to relish in the cool relief even as he shivers. Neil goes to refill it and sets it down on the nightstand, sitting on the edge of the bed himself.
Andrew still looks flushed, blond hair sticking to his forehead with perspiration, and the occasional shiver runs through him as he gives weak, wet-sounding coughs. It's not very appealing, overall, and if it were anyone else Neil might have done the same as Kevin and fled from the chance of infection.
But it's Andrew, and the only thing Neil finds in himself is not disgust, but concern.
He wets a towel in the bathroom and places it on Andrew's forehead, and leaves him only with the thin blanket from the living room so he won't trap too much body heat under his comforter.
"How are you feeling?" he asks again.
Andrew grunts, scrunches his nose, and says, for the first time all day, "Not good." His voice is scratchy both from disuse and the flu, and even this small concession has him coughing again. He leans into the hand Neil raises to his head, intending to brush Andrew's hair out of his face, with a need Neil has never seen him display so openly.
It shatters something in his heart, and he thinks once more of Andrew as a child — sick and in need of care that he wouldn't receive.
"Can I get into the bed with you?" he asks, and Andrew nods readily.
Neil stays out of the blanket, not wanting to warm him up too much, but he tucks himself firmly against Andrew's side. Andrew accepts him, letting his head drop hard against Neil's arm.
It's not very comfortable. Neil yearns to embrace Andrew fully, tuck him into his arms like his mother would do to him, fall asleep curled together with Andrew's heat radiating against his chest. But he doesn't think that is something Andrew can deal with like this — in fact it might be frightening if he woke up delirious to arms holding him — and it would probably also not be great for his fever. So Neil stays tucked against his side, arms crossed over his chest and half sitting up, watching over him as he drifts into sleep.
"You'll get sick," Andrew murmurs, "idiot."
Which is probably true, but given how infectious this thing seems to be he was probably a lost cause the moment Andrew got it, anyway.
"Go to sleep," he replies, trying his best to sound stern. "And get better soon."
Andrew obeys the first command, which gives Neil hope for the second one. He sifts a hand through Andrew's damp hair until his breathing evens out, and spends most of the night watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.
If his nose grows stuffed by lunch the next day, he can't say he has any regrets.