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Jean-Loo didn't look pleased with Freddy. He never really looked pleased with anybody, probably thought he was above them or something, but this was new regardless.
“Uh, hey man.” Freddy greeted softly, rubbing his eyes. Discreetly, he eyes Timothy, looking at the time. It's only about 8am, definitely early for some of them.
“Mon Dieu…” Jean-Loo groans, oddly unenthusiastic. He's not yelling for once. “Couldn't you grab your…chilled inhabitant? He's rather important to the kitchen anyways isn't he?” He complains.
Freddy just blinks at him, thoroughly confused. Inhabitant?..
“...oh! You mean Mitch?” Freddy suddenly realizes, also realizing that the man is not in the kitchen right now.
“Yes, yes, whatever his name is. Can you come grab him? He's disrupting my sleep.” Jean-Loo seethes, tone unamused. Freddy opens his mouth to ask further before he manages to hear down the hall. He can hear in the downstairs bathroom, door wide open, the steady sound of someone probably puking his guts out. Freddy grimaces slightly.
“Ah, that's him?”
Jean-Loo doesn't answer verbally, just nods.
After walking down the hall, Freddy peaks in to see Mitchell hunched over the toilet, Farya holding his hair up and Bathroom Dorian with a hand on his back.
Bathroom Dorian glares at Jean-Loo, definitely unimpressed. “I told you not to wake him up. We could have handled Mitchell.” He says, glancing at Freddy apologetically. Jean-Loo merely groans.
“He's disturbing my sleep! I have things to do.” He said, crossing his arms. Farya opened her mouth to say something, before Freddy just chuckled softly.
“It's fine, I'll take Mitch. He’ll do better in the kitchen anyways.” Freddy says, striding over and patting poor Mitchell on the back. The critic merely groans, energy probably sucked out of him. “Thanks for taking care of him though.”
Freddy leads Mitchell down the hall the second they're sure he's done throwing up, and they both sit down at the table.
Shockingly enough, Mitchell getting sick isn't very rare, and Freddy had a pretty good idea why. But before he traversed that, he grabs a glass of water and hands it to Mitchell, whose hands are slightly shaking.
“Do you wanna go back to bed?” Freddy asks nicely, trying not to be too loud. Mitchell looks conflicted, almost ashamed, and Freddy can definitely tell he hates this already.
“Hey, dude, it's nothing to be ashamed of.” Freddy points out, as Mitchell takes small sips from the glass of water. His hair is down, some parts of it stuck to his forehead, hinting to Freddy that he might have a fever rather than a cold. It was really a hit or miss when this happened, but at least that meant it wasn't because of anything in the fridge. Still, to be explored later. “People get sick all the time.”
Actually, people get sick. Objects typically didn't. Unless a sickness was spread around by the few objects that could get ill, they were typically safe.
…which definitely meant Jean-Loo was gonna be next. Maybe he had a right to be pissed.
Mitchell is still looking down at his glass, sluggish, and Freddy snaps back into taking care of him. He'd always felt protective of the man, of course, in the most reasonable way. It was really a given, to be expected, considering their roles in the household.
Speaking of…he wonders when the homeowner will wake up.
“Look, Mitch, how about we get you to bed?” Freddy offers softly. “I know you don't wanna waste the day, but there's really no way you can go around anywhere like this.”
There's a few moments of silence, and then Mitchell finally agrees. He softly nods, still probably hesitant, but Freddy can see the look in Mitchell's eyes. The one that suggests he really wants to go to sleep. So Freddy helps him up, keeping a sturdy hand on his back, and they wait for the sudden nausea to pass before he leads Mitchell to bed.
—---
The homeowner yawns, looking around the kitchen with their dateviators just out on. They look at their watch, and then turn to Timothy.
“Hey, is Mitchell here? We were gonna go visit someplace at ten.” They ask, noting the sour expression that immediately washes over Timothy's face.
“I’m not sure, but at least one of you both appreciate the art of timeliness.” He sneered. And then the expression softened. “However, Mitchell is rarely late.”
That's true. He doesn't value time as much as Timothy—nobody values time as much as Timothy—but he at least respects it.
“Oh, hey man.”
The homeowner turns, just slightly startled, and visibly relaxed as they see Freddy. The smile that graces their face is calm, but also slightly confused. “Freddy! Have you seen Mitchell?” They ask, lightly concerned. Freddy nods.
“He's sick, came down with a fever.” He explains. Freddy's tone is just slightly condescending, and he points over to the cabinet. “And I think I might have an idea why.”
The homeowner looks at him curiously, but goes over to open the cabinet anyway. “Does it…have to do with the food?”
“Usually. When something expires, Mitchell gets really sick.” Freddy explains. “I know it's not anything in the fridge, because then he'd have a cold.”
The homeowner listens along, shuffles around for a few moments and then sighs. “Potatoes. I bought them last month, completely forgot.” They admit, immediately guilty. Freddy pats them lightly on the shoulder, trying not to frown.
“Ah, Mitch won't hold it against you. This isn't the first time it's happened, he understands the circumstances.” He says, trying to idly comfort. Freddy also looks slightly more…relaxed.
“On that note, he's still asleep. I should go check on him.” He declares. The homeowner frowns, but nods.
“Could you tell him I'm sorry? I would have paid better attention to the food if I knew it…you know, made him sick.”
“Eh, he’ll understand, kid.”
It's soon after that that Freddy makes his way back to Mitchell's room, opening the door just slightly. He peers inside, ducking his head under the doorframe.
Mitchell is still fast asleep, head tilted back into the pillows. Despite the fan being on high, and the sudden chill that Freddy usually brought into any room he entered, the blankets had already been kicked off. His hair was down, sprawled against the sheets, and despite Mitchell being obviously asleep, Freddy leaned over to the bed and brushed some hair out of his face.
Ages of acting all proper and important catches up to Mitchell a lot, and more often than not it's Freddy who sits there and watches the mask slip. He wished more people knew how sweet Mitchell could be, outside of his food criticism.
But at the same time, it felt like his. His own privileged knowledge. Freddy isn't sure how he'd feel if anybody else would sit beside Mitchell and listen intently to the man as he drank wine, nodding along and never sparing a glance at the clock that hit midnight. Their late night talks didn't just feel like peace, they felt like his.
Mitchell shifts over slightly, tilting his head. A few more seconds pass, before he cracks one eye open a bit and looks at Freddy.
Despite him quite obviously feeling like hell, Mitchell still manages to utter a raspy ‘Hello..’ under his breath, and that emits a chuckle from Freddy.
“Hey, man. How're you feeling?” He offers, leaning back on the bed. Mitchell replied with a shaky groan.
“I think I'm melting…” He admits dramatically, trying to move his neck and avoid the blond strands plastered to it. That also seemed to procure a laugh out of Freddy, who helped him move over slightly. He rested a hand on Mitchell's shoulder, cold as always, and the critic leaned into the touch.
“Do you want water?” He asks, shifting up slightly. Mitchell almost groans, wanting Freddy to stay, but when he opens his mouth to say no and demand his company, his throat is terribly dry.
So he swallows his request and nods. Still, Freddy manages to catch on to his hesitance, and grabs the water quickly before dashing back to Mitchell's side.
He helps the food critic sit up, keeping a firm hand on his back as Mitchell holds the glass with just slightly shaky hands. He was grateful, of course, and he takes large sips of the water when he can.
Finally, when his throat feels okay enough to speak again, he looks at Freddy with just a glint of guilt.
“You didn't have to help me, Frederick.” He says softly, bringing the glass back up to his lips. Freddy shakes his head.
“Nah. You're…sorta my responsibility, y'know? But also Cabrizzio’s I guess? And maybe Abel's…” Freddy trails off, but then shifts closer on the bed. “Case and point, I'd help you anyway. I'd help anybody, but especially you.”
“Hm, why especially me?” Mitchell asks, a stoic yet sickly tone betraying the curiosity in his voice.
“Well…because you're you. I like hanging out with you, and I think out of everyone I've seen you the most sick anyways. Especially with milk.” He shudders. Mitchell immediately nods, grimacing for just a second. Just a second, before he looks tired again.
“Mm, thank you, Freddy.” He admits, no energy in his voice to deny his normal nickname. He lays back down onto the bed, trying once again to get comfortable, a task seemingly impossible. Freddy helps of course, leaning back on the headboard and laying his hand over Mitchell's forehead. The cold feeling was immense, and immediately Mitchell seemed to envelop it gladly.
“Could you…stay, just for a bit?” He murmurs, mustering just enough energy—and courage—to ask. Freddy doesn't even hesitate with his answer.
“Yeah, of course Mitch.”