Chapter Text
A wave of unbearable humidity pressed down on Eugene Ottinger, only to be replaced by a sharp chill that made him shiver under his half-kicked blanket. His curls clung damply to his forehead, his throat raw every time he swallowed. Somewhere between fever dreams and waking, he realized he wasn’t alone.
Hovering above him was Pugsley Addams, pale and grim as ever, staring like Eugene was some strange insect he’d pinned to a board.
Eugene blinked blearily. “Uh—what the hell? Why are you watching me sleep?” His voice came out raspy, tinged with annoyance. Because seriously, who does that?
Pugsley flinched, his brows furrowing like Eugene had just asked the dumbest question known to man. “Oh. Well… you woke up screaming again,” he muttered. His voice cracked as a faint pink crept across his cheeks. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
That made Eugene pause. His fever made his head fuzzy, but he was almost certain he’d caught the embarrassment in Pugsley’s tone. Weird. “Well, thanks, I guess,” Eugene muttered, pulling the blanket tighter. “But I’m fine. You can, y’know, go back to your creepy bed now.”
But Pugsley didn’t move.
Eugene frowned, realizing why. His hand—clammy and hot—was wrapped tightly around Pugsley’s wrist. When had that happened? And why did the idea of letting go make his stomach twist?
His eyes widened, and he yanked his hand back like he’d been stung. “S-sorry.”
Pugsley rubbed at his wrist absentmindedly, though his gaze lingered on Eugene’s flushed face. “Dude your hands are burning. Are you sick or something?”
Eugene groaned and rolled over, hiding his expression. “I said I’m fine. Stop hovering. Creep.” The last thing he needed was pity—especially from Pugsley especially when it made his chest feel warm in a way that had nothing to do with the fever.
Pugsley didn’t argue. Instead, he disappeared into the dorm bathroom and returned with a towel, steam still curling off it. Without a word, he folded it gently over Eugene’s forehead. The warmth soothed instantly, though Eugene refused to admit it.
“You don’t have to—”
“Just shut up and rest,” Pugsley said softly, his voice steadier now. If you stay in for today, I’ll tell Professor Orloff you're taking the day off. But I'm going to get going, so bye, dude!”
For a moment, Eugene thought he saw something flicker across Pugsley’s face—hesitation, maybe longing—but then he stood and turned toward the door. Eugene let his eyelids droop, pretending to be asleep. But he couldn’t help peeking through a slit as Pugsley paused at the threshold. Pugsley hesitated at the door, glancing back one last time. Eugene’s curls stuck to his forehead, his cheeks flushed pink. Adorable, if he’d ever admit it.
“Adiós, mi abeja,” he murmured, almost too soft to hear. He slipped out before he could second-guess himself. Eugene’s eyes cracked open. Eugene’s fever-flushed face went even hotter. He squeezed the blanket in his fists, heart hammering like a swarm of bees trapped in his chest. Surely he’d imagined it. Surely it was just another fever dream.
And yet… the sting felt real.