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The CVS near Palmetto had a better stock of medicine than most hospitals. Shelves and shelves of decongestants, fever reducers, on-brand and off. It was almost like they knew that a mere half mile away were hundreds of college students sharing germs in the petri-dish that is a dorm.
Andrew’s eyes flicked back and forth along the shelves. Really, this shouldn’t be hard. He should just grab the cheapest thing and go. In fact, that was precisely what Neil had told him to do when he had finally conceded to take medicine, buried under blankets in the bottom bunk.
“I don’t need a lot,” he’d rasped, his eyes barely visible through the blankets. “Just get the cheapest, I only need one dose. Then we would throw it out.”
Andrew didn’t need to ask who ‘we’ meant. To Neil, sickness was weakness, and thanks to his slimy ogre of a mother, it was one that often resulted in violence. Andrew had been half a second away from ripping his hair out as he’d watched an unusually timid Neil ask Kevin if he could miss practice, then immediately tense like he expected the taller man to strike him for his weakness.
After another moment, Andrew’s eyes finally landed on what he had been searching for.
Flu Relief: Orange
He grabbed the bottle and tossed it into his basket, which already held tissues, cough drops, and other flu-related items. He could pretend that the choices had been random: the menthol cough drops, the orange-flavored medicine, the extra soft tissues. But Andrew never did things without reason. Stupid Neil hated sweet things, the cherry cough syrup Andrew always reached for would not agree with him. Orange was the best bet; it would be sweet, but he would only need a little, and the menthol cough drops were the opposite of sweet.
The self-checkout was out of order, so Andrew dumped his items unceremoniously on the counter, the bloodshot eyes of the high school age employee staring up at him. The Top 40 hits playing quietly in the background, combined with the systematic beeping, felt dreamlike. Andrew played with the hem of his sweatshirt sleeve, anxious to be back at Fox Tower. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Neil on his own, it was more that the man had a unique ability to put himself in ridiculous situations, which was only aggravated by his sickened state.
After more time than Andrew deemed necessary, his items were bagged and paid for, and he was walking towards the door, stuffing the six-foot-long receipt into his pocket.
He threw the bag into the passenger seat and the Maserati rumbled to life. Neil’s water bottle was in the cupholder, untouched since practice two days ago. He had insisted he was ‘fine’ despite the shivers that had wracked his body. It had been less than thirty minutes into practice when Neil had sunk to the floor, deathly pale.
Despite his protests, Andrew had grabbed him by the waist and put him in the car. In his determination to get Neil into the dorm, he must have forgotten the water bottle. He plucked it from the holder and shoved it in the bag as he pulled into Fox Tower.
The dorm was dark when he returned. Kevin had fled to Wymacks after he’d been woken up by Neil attempting to cure his sore throat by drinking boiling water. Andrew’s hissed “Get out” had meant merely the living room in that moment, but he was glad to see it taken more literally.
A small amount of light was visible from the open bedroom door as Andrew pushed it open. The lump of blankets on the bed was only distinguishable by the tuft of ginger hair peeking out of the top.
Reaching out a hand, Andrew pulled down the part of the blanket covering Neil’s face. Bright blue eyes blinked up at him, glassy and unfocused.
“I got you medicine.”
Neil huffed and turned away.
“Neil.”
No response. Andrew sighed and took the bottle out of the bag. This process would be easier if he had the medicine in hand. After tearing off the plastic and opening the child seal, he poured the directed amount into the lid.
“Neil. The sooner you take medicine, the sooner you can be on the court again.”
That perked him up, the fucking junkie. After several seconds of shuffling and coughing, Neil sat up in bed, almost entirely cocooned in blankets. He was eyeing the bottle in Andrew’s hand, probably noticing it wasn’t the off-brand bottom shelf stuff he had requested. Andrew put it behind his back.
“Here,” he pushed the lid into Neil’s hand. “Drink.”
Sniffing it, Neil wrinkled his nose, but after a glare from Andrew, he downed the medicine in one.
“Thanks,” he whispered, handing the lid back to Andrew. “You didn’t need to get so much. I won’t need anymore.”
Andrew wanted to punch something, but resigned himself to tearing up the receipt in his pocket.
“No. You will take it every six to eight hours for the next few days. Then we will put it in the bathroom so you can take it the next time you get sick. When it runs out, we will buy more, but then it’s my turn to pick the flavor.”
Neil was expressionless, and Andrew fucking hated it. He busied himself with setting up all the things he had bought on the nightstand and filling Neil’s water bottle instead of thinking about how he wished he were the one to kill Mary Hatford.
Neil was still sitting up in bed, staring off into space, when Andrew made his way back to him. The ashen man shifted slightly when Andrew appeared at his side again and stared up at him.
“Its the third day,” Neil whispered. He looked down at his lap, pinching the blanket between his fingers. “It’s the third day of me being sick.”
He paused. Andrew could almost see the way he was shutting down.
“That was her limit.”
Right, because of course, Neil’s mother had a limit of how many days her son could be sick, because that was how sickness worked.
“Good thing she’s dead.”
Neil laughed softly at this. Andrew didn’t find it particularly funny. In the barely lit dorm room, Neil’s eyes looked almost clear, his scars standing out even more against his sickly skin, and even his hair looked deflated.
Andrew wasn’t soft, but he couldn’t imagine seeing this version of Neil and doing anything other than wrapping him in blankets. He looked vulnerable, but it only made Andrew want to make him feel safer.
Neil’s form shook with a full-body shiver, and he groaned softly.
“Cold?” Andrew asked.
Neil shrugged, “I’m fine.”
If Andrew were given the power to strike two words out of Neil’s vocabulary for good, he knew what they would be.
He slid off his shoes and padded over to the closet to change his jeans for sweatpants and remove his sweatshirt. He felt Neil’s eyes on him, not predatorily, just watching.
Making his way back to the side of the bed, Andrew put one hand out toward Neil’s shoulder and another on the empty part of the bed.
“Yes or no?”
Neil’s eyes were wide as he looked from Andrew’s face to his hands, for a math major, he was remarkably slow at this calculation.
“‘Drew?”
“Yes or no, Neil?”
“Yes,” he said softly, almost like a sigh.
Andrew swung his legs up onto the bed so he could lie beside Neil. Then, he wrapped one arm around his shoulders, pulling the smaller man to his chest. He let Neil adjust for a moment, shifting his blankets and organizing the tangle their legs made, before wrapping both arms around Neil’s upper back, one hand in his hair. He felt Neil’s breath against his neck as he let out a deep sigh.
They’d done this before. It had been a process, Andrew working to feel safe with another body on top of him, but Neil’s body never felt threatening. Maybe it was the scars that mottled his skin that made it so easy to tell who he was or the smell of his eucalyptus shampoo, but Andrew had found that holding Neil like this was something he, for lack of a better word, enjoyed.
Neil yearned for physical touch; it was obvious to everyone. He preened when Dan ruffled his hair and practically glowed when Matt lifted him in a bone-crushing hug. Yet, despite that, he had never pushed Andrew, each step they took was initiated by Andrew, with Neil taking however much he could give with a smile. But Andrew also knew that Neil felt safe with Andrew’s arms around him, that he liked his hand on his thigh while they drove, or their pinkies linked at Edens.
And maybe Andrew liked it too.
Neil was warm on top of him; he always ran hot, and the fever wasn’t helping, but Andrew didn’t mind. He knew his junkie hadn’t been sleeping well, the target that Neil always felt like he had on his back was only worsened when he felt weak. Neil had told him how his mother and he had slept, back to back, gun under the pillow. It wasn’t easy to unlearn, and there were still moments when Neil jolted awake, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there.
In his more profound moments, Andrew imagined himself as that weapon for Neil. He knew Neil was for him, in a way. When he would wake up, frozen with fear, the curly hair brushing his nose and the scarred hand in his would force his mind back to the present. It wasn’t always enough, of course; there were still nights when he needed to retreat to the roof, but it was something.
Neil was finally sleeping, and Andrew could feel the steady rhythm of his breath. His face was relaxed and peaceful, his long, almost golden, eyelashes fanning across his cheeks, his mouth slightly open, lips plush. Andrew knew Neil didn’t really care about looks, but he had been working on figuring out what words would make him blush.
A “pretty” when they were studying deep in the back of the library, and the way Neil would huff and look down at his notes, the tips of his ears pink. A “beautiful” when he was splayed out beneath Andrew, and the way his entire chest would flush and he would throw his arm over his eyes. A “handsome” as he fixed his tie for the banquet, and the way Neil would bite his lip, cheeks red.
Andrew cataloged each reaction, preserved in his brain forever. Whenever he wanted, he could flick through a picture book of Neil’s face, every microexpression acknowledged.
Right now, none of those words felt right for how Neil looked. As the tension left his shoulders and drool started to soak through Andrew’s shirt, the only word that came to mind was “lovely.” The word felt almost too sweet, something stone-cold Andrew Minyard would never say. But looking at Neil’s sleeping form, Andrew knew his sharper edges had melted years ago.
In the silent room, Andrew whispered, “You’re lovely.”
Neil didn’t react, thankfully. Andrew felt goosebumps on his shoulders, and a blush started climbing his neck. The word felt strange on his tongue, he wasn’t sure if he’d ever said it before. It was too gentle for him, but, if he was being honest with himself, nothing was too gentle when it came to Neil. It was hard for Andrew to see the marks people had made all over Neil’s body and not want to do the complete opposite. Sure, he’d press hickies into Neil’s neck and thighs, he’d kiss him bruisingly, but he didn’t want to hurt him.
Andrew hadn’t expected to be able to fall asleep with Neil on top of him like this; he figured the pressure of a body would be too much. But the weight of his eyelids told a different story, and he found himself fighting to stay awake. Eventually, he surrendered. Neil was warm against him, the dorm was dark and quiet, and Andrew could only hold out so long.
The sun was what woke him in the end. Its creeping rays snuck up the bed, lighting up Neil’s sleeping form. Neil was still asleep, the medicine having done its job. The drool puddle on Andrew’s shirt had grown over the night, but he couldn’t really find it in him to mind.
He should get up, get more meds, and put himself back together after laying everything out for Neil the previous night. But the ginger man was burrowed so tight in his chest that it looked like it would almost hurt to move him.
He looked much younger like this, face untouched by his past, the gentle morning light softening his scars. Andrew couldn’t help but look, watching as the rising sun crept up Neil’s face.
After what could have been five minutes or five hours, Neil’s eyelids fluttered and slowly opened. He blinked several times, eventually catching Andrew’s gaze.
“Staring,” Neil said. It was hard to tell if his voice was raspy from sleep or the cough.
Andrew rolled his eyes, but couldn’t find it in himself to do much more. Neil’s head was sideways, cheek pressed into Andrew’s chest, blue eyes staring at him.
“How do you feel?”
“Fi-” Neil paused at Andrew’s face. “A little bit better but still not great.”
“More medicine and rest.”
Neil laughed into Andrew’s neck.
“Yes doc.”
Andrew didn’t dignify that with a response. After another moment, Neil groaned.
“Fuck, I have to piss.”
“I can’t help you there,” said Andrew, wryly.
Neil laughed at that, throwing his head back.
Sighing again, he pushed himself up off Andrew’s chest until he was sitting on his heels. Arms over his head, he stretched, his shirt riding up slightly.
“God, I’m gonna be so tense at practice tonight,” he said.
“I think you mean at practice tomorrow.”
Neil frowned at him, standing. He couldn’t fool Andrew. He saw the way Neil was squinting, the morning light too much for his headache, and the way he kept a blanket wrapped around him, chills not quite gone.
As he made his way towards the bathroom, the golden sunlight hit his face, lighting it up, his hair like fire. Andrew cataloged it.
Neil was in the bathroom, the door closed, before Andrew risked it again.
“You’re lovely.”
It felt less wrong this time.
Maybe, someday, he’d say it to Neil’s face.