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Tommy wakes up to a combination of alarming sensations that make him want to close his eyes again.
It’s like checking off a list. Scratchy throat, stuffy nose, ringing ears, and the feeling that he has to push every thought through a wall of cotton.
He groans and rolls on his side, pushing the back of his hand against his forehead to check if he’s having a fever too. Maybe. Feels a little warmer than usual, but not much.
Damnit.
There’s little more Tommy hates than being sick. Fortunately, it doesn’t happen too often, but when it does, it’s hell.
His first instinct is to ignore it.
It’s not that bad. It will pass. He still has to do a ton of stuff. The groceries, dishes, and laundry aren’t going to do themselves. As long as he throws in some Tylenol and gives his body a good night's rest, he might get rid of whatever this is until his shift starts. Hopefully. Because the mere thought of calling in sick and cancelling his long-scheduled date with Evan makes Tommy’s skin crawl.
He hates interrupting his routines even more than he hates being sick.
“Oh, sweetheart, you look awful,” says Tommy’s neighbour Martha, an elderly woman, when he takes his trash out, huffing through his mouth like an asthmatic walrus, because his nose is too stuffed. She’s sitting on the bench in her garden, with her cat curled up on her lap, squinting at him over her glasses. “Being sick like this, you should stay in bed and rest.”
Tommy sniffs and tries to smile at her. It’s probably more of a grimace. “I’m fine,” he says hoarsely. “It’s just a little cold.”
“Doesn’t sound little,” she tuts with a frown. “I can make you some tea.”
“That really isn’t necessary,” Tommy says, startled.
Martha waves her hand. “Oh, don’t worry about it, dear. My tea has always helped my children when they were sick.”
“Thank you,” Tommy says, moved, and his chest tightens when a childhood memory tries to rise up.
Martha reminds him of one of his teachers, Mrs. Miller. She was nice. Tommy liked her. She never told him to stop doodling during lessons. Instead, she believed him when he explained that it helped him listen, while other teachers just shook their heads in disgruntled disbelief and told him, “You can’t be listening and doodling. You’re distracted. Focus! Or should we call your father?”
No. Tommy always told them to please not call his father. He would just be very irritated.
Tommy remembers one particular day when he went to school sick. Tommy wasn’t able to stop coughing and sneezing; his nose was so stuffed, it was hard to breathe through it. Soon, he didn’t have any tissues left.
When the lesson was over, Mrs. Miller frowned at him, and Tommy winced, waiting to be scolded, but then he realised that she wasn’t angry. She was worried.
“Shouldn’t you be at home?” She asked, handing him a tissue. “That cough doesn’t sound well. Did you go and see a doctor for it?”
Tommy felt his face heating up. He grabbed the tissue gratefully, fidgeting with it nervously. “My Dad said it’s nothing,” he muttered, avoiding his teacher’s searching gaze.
Mrs. Miller’s frown deepened. “Doesn’t sound like anything. Come on. I’m going to get you some tea from the school nurse.”
Half an hour later and a few tissues more, she watched him drinking his tea in little sips and eventually asked thoughtfully, “Do you like your Dad, Tommy?”
He looked at her in surprise. Of course, Tommy loved his Dad. No question about it. Sure, his father didn’t come to pick Tommy up from school, didn’t go to any teacher meetings, and didn't listen to Tommy’s presentations about aviation history. Other kids liked to taunt Tommy because of the clear absence of a parent.
But … His Dad was still his Dad, right? Sons were supposed to love their Dads. And Tommy knew that his father was just doing his best. He always said so. His friends said so. Grandma said so. And Tommy believed it too.
Ever since Tommy’s Mum died, his Dad had to do all the work. So he shouldn’t be judged too harshly if he was a little loud, a little grumpy. If he fell asleep on the couch, with a bottle in his hand, it was because he was exhausted from all the hard work he was always doing.
“Yeah,” Tommy said, answering the question, then taking another sip of hot Chamomile tea. It felt good in his throat.
“Hm.” Mrs. Miller sighed. “Of course you do.”
It seemed like she wanted to say more. But she didn’t. Tommy didn’t get it back then. He gets it now.
Tommy’s Dad didn’t make him tea when he returned home that day. He told Tommy to man up and stop sniffling. “There’s no way I’m taking you to a doctor,” he muttered, glancing at Tommy and taking a swig of his beer. “God knows I don’t have any money for no goddamn medication.”
“I’m fine,” Tommy assured him and went to his room, where he could lose himself in a book and forget about his itchy throat and Mrs. Miller’s strange, piercing gaze.
In the present, Tommy curls his fingers around the thermos flask Martha gave him, enjoying the warmth it radiates.
The tea feels like hot balm for his throat, soothing and tasting incredibly healthy. As if Martha put every possible herb in there. He still can’t believe she made it for him. Tommy makes a mental note to ask her if anything needs to be done in her house.
Before going to bed, Tommy takes more Tylenol and hopes he will get better overnight. He has so much to do.
He doesn’t get better. He gets worse.
After tossing and turning the whole night and waking up in the morning barely able to open his swollen, sticky eyes, Tommy sighs and admits defeat to whatever this (not a little cold) is.
He can’t fly like this. He might be reckless from time to time - especially when he steals a chopper to save 118 members - but he’s not irresponsible. He calls in sick, apologizes a dozen times, and listens to his Captain reminding him that his health is important and that he shouldn’t feel guilty for prioritizing it. Tommy says okay, but he still feels guilty for the fuss this is going to cause.
Tommy relucantly texts Evan next.
Sorry, we have to postpone our pizza date. I’m sick.
Evan replies fast: You’re sick? No way, how sick? I want to fight your sickness!
Tommy smiles, warmth blooming in his chest. That’s so cute.
It’s okay. I’m just marinating in my own snot. But I think I will live, he types.
Evan instantly sends: I’m coming over. I’m making you soup.
Tommy freezes, his finger hovering over the display, staring at the words. Oh. He didn’t expect that. He slowly raises his head, suddenly becoming aware that his house is a mess because he couldn’t do any of the chores he planned to do yesterday. There are dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. Clothes on the couch. Damnit.
Once again, two voices are fighting in his mind.
One wants to have Evan here immediately. Wants to see his boyfriend’s smile, wants to be comforted and taken care of by him.
But the other voice says, No. You can’t have that. You have to be independent and strong, you have to keep your boyfriend safe from catching your sickness, because he doesn’t deserve that, he also doesn’t have to make soup or anything else for you, you can do that yourself, grow up and get over it, shake it off, or are you a weakling?
It’s scary how fast that second voice changes until it sounds exactly like his father’s …
Did I raise a crybaby? Tell me, boy, are you a man or are you a little whiny princess? Stop crying and do what needs to be done!
Tommy swallows. The words are typed before he can really think about it.
You don’t have to.
But Evan sends: I want to. Soup date in bed. ;)
Tommy’s heart softens. Oh, Evan. How does Tommy deserve such a caring, adorable, thoughtful boyfriend? He sighs and forces himself to get up and reach for a lonely sock on the floor, grimacing when the movement shoots pain through his head. He probably should also open the windows to let some fresh air in.
Maybe, he muses, Evan won’t come over anyway. Maybe something unforeseen will happen, and he will text Tommy to politely apologise that he isn’t able to come after all. Maybe.
But you want him to be here.
Yeah. Tommy does. Tommy really, really wants Evan here.
But he also doesn’t want to be a bother because, in his experience, people don’t like that. If you’re too much to handle, people leave. Or they drink too much booze and tell you they wish you were never born because somehow, you are never what they wanted or expected you to be.
Tommy scoffs and slams a window open. Wow. That fever is really messing with his emotions.
“You really came,” Tommy says, blinking.
“You thought I wouldn’t?” Evan asks, grinning at him. But the grin fades fast, while his eyes move up and down Tommy’s body. Tommy is aware of how he looks. His nose red, his eyes swollen, his skin ghostly pale, dressed in jogging pants and a shirt, a robe thrown over, his hair a tousled mess.
“I know,” Tommy says, trying to pull air through his stuffed nose, but fails. “I look horrible.”
“Hey, at least you didn’t grow any boils,” Evan says, shrugging. “Come on, you should lie down.”
He walks past Tommy, straight towards the kitchen.
Tommy slumps on the couch with a groan. “Are you not worried you might get sick too?”
Evan shrugs. “If it happens, it happens. If I’m sick too, we call Chimney to make us soup.”
Tommy snorts. “You want him to get sick too?”
“He has Jee, I’m sure by now, he’s immune to most stuff,” Evan says, chuckling and reaching for a pot.
Tommy remembers the dishes in the sink and grimaces. “It’s not very clean here,” he states.
Evan just gives him a look.
“I can help,” Tommy offers. Because he really shouldn’t lie around on the couch like this when someone else is working. In his kitchen.
“Baby, don’t be mad, but let me do the cooking,” Evan says, shaking his head in amusement. “Just stay on the couch. Rest.”
“It doesn’t have to be cooking. I can do the dishes,” Tommy assures, trying to get up from the couch. But then the world spins, he sways, and can’t suppress a groan of pain when a stab of pain rushes through his head.
Evan whips around, narrows his eyes, and points the spoon at Tommy. “For the last time. Stay down. Rest.”
“Yes, sir,” Tommy mutters dryly, leaning back into the pillows with a frustrated huff and pulls the blanket over his legs. In another context, he might be turned on by that voice. But right now, he’s just miserable. How can it be too hot and too cold at the same time?
Tommy can feel his eyes getting heavy and closes them, allowing himself to relax at least a little. It takes no time at all until he can smell the soup. Smells nice. Heavenly, actually. His stomach rumbles, reminding him that it’s been a while since he had anything to eat. Evan is humming while stirring the soup, some tune Tommy doesn’t recognize.
While listening, he almost falls asleep, drifting through the fog in his brain. But then he blinks his eyes open and sees Evan looking at him, with a serious expression on his face.
Tommy frowns. “What?”
“I’m worried,” Evan says, scrunching his nose.
Tommy smiles, a little confused. “I won’t die. Hopefully.”
“I know. But I’ve never seen you like this,” Evan says softly.
Tommy tenses up. He can’t help it. It’s like muscle memory. I’ve never seen you like this. Sick. Weak. Useless.
“I’m okay,” he says quickly, sitting up. Oh. That was too fast. The world is spinning again.
Evan frowns. “No, you’re not. And that’s okay. I will take care of you until you are. Here, eat some soup now.”
He hands Tommy the bowl, and he takes it, his stomach rumbling again. Louder. Tommy hurries to dip his spoon into the soup, and when he tastes the first sip, he can’t suppress a moan. Oh. This is good soup.
Evan leans back and watches him eat, a small smile on his face. “You really don’t like being sick, do you?” He asks, cocking his head.
Tommy sighs. “No. I don’t like it all. Thanks for … being patient with me. I’m aware I’m a difficult patient. It’s just … I’m so used to having to take care of myself, you know? Sometimes it’s hard to stop. I had to be independent ever since I was a child. My mom died in a car crash, and my father … Well. I have very vivid memories of him snoring on the couch while I’m trying to find something edible in the fridge so I could sneak it into my room. Away from him and … the smell of booze.”
Oops. Tommy winces. Overshare Alarm.
But Evan doesn’t seem to mind. He just listens, his face serious.
Tommy clears his throat. “Now, I’m a big guy, and most people would expect big guys to be strong, right? Strong and confident. Well, I had that one relationship with this guy, uh, Larry. He didn’t react well to the fact that I wasn’t always playing the big, strong guy in our relationship. Whenever I put down the mask, he used to frown and shake his head and tell me, you’re not a child, are you? Because I’m not interested in dating one. Well. He couldn’t handle seeing me cry after a bad flashback, so he left.”
“What a jerk,” Evan says, through his teeth. He looks angry now. “Unbelievable. You're better off without him. Flashbacks?” He adds, softer.
Tommy sighs and rubs his temples. “Yeah. I don’t have them often. At least not anymore. Just … Pictures. From my time in the military, you know? I wouldn’t call it PTSD. I know guys with PTSD. But sometimes, I feel like I’m back there. I’m flying and laughing with a friend, and the next moment, we’re getting shot at, and I can feel my control over the chopper slipping. It starts to spin, and there’s smoke everywhere, and I try to do something, but before I know we are crashing into the desert. There’s screaming. And there’s dying. There are the blank eyes of my friend. And … I’m sorry. I got carried away.” He shudders.
“You never told me,” Evan says quietly, looking stunned. “And … does sound a lot like PTSD, Tommy.”
“Sorry. Like I said. It can be hard sometimes. To let go of masks. I’m trying. But it’s possible it only happens in bits and pieces. Like peeling an onion,” Tommy says, shrugging and trying a weak smile.
Evan thinks about it for a moment. Eventually, he says, “You don’t have to pretend with me. I want you to know that you’re safe with me. I don’t think you have to be strong the whole time. In fact, I think that opening up about something that scares you or makes you sad is the strongest you can be.”
Tommy raises a brow. “Really?”
“Really,” Evan says, nodding. “Also, I can tell you some stories about my childhood, while you’re eating, if you want to. There was this one time I hid in the basement, waiting to see if anyone would come and search for me. Because I sometimes felt like I didn’t even exist.”
Tommy slurps down more delicious soup, trying to imagine little Evan sitting in a basement, his knees pulled to his chest, waiting. His chest aches. “Please tell me someone came.”
“Maddie,” Evan says, smiling warmly. “Maddie always came. She was always relieved and happy to see me. And then she told me to never do it again.”
“I’m glad you had Maddie,” Tommy says. “I had someone too, without really realising it. A teacher. And of course, I had my books.”
“And now we have each other,” Evan states. Just like that. He takes Tommy’s empty bowl and places it on the couch table. Then, he leans back and pats his lap, “Come on, lie down. You need to rest.”
He’s not joking, Tommy realises. He’s serious.
Well. Why not … It sounds like a good idea. He puts his head on Evan’s lap and stretches his legs, pulling the blanket up to his chin. It takes no time at all until Evan starts to run gentle fingers through Tommy’s hair.
And … Oh. This is nice. Warm. Comfy.
Tommy could get used to this.
“Thank you,” he breathes, closing his eyes.
Evan doesn’t ask what for. He just continues the soothing trail of his fingers through Tommy’s hair and starts to read animal facts on his phone out loud, until Tommy can feel his eyes getting heavy. His body, warmed up by the soup, relaxes, allowing him to drift off into sleep.