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“I think I’m going to die.”
Gerard sighs. “No, you're not.”
Frank sniffs and pulls the blanket up to his chin. He hates autumn. The only good thing about autumn is Halloween-slash-his birthday, but everything else is absolutely horrible, from the constant rain and cold wind to him getting sick right in the middle of October. Every goddamn year. It has been this way for as long as he remembers, and it's not about to change any time soon, so the only option Frank is left with is buying all the Tylenol and Advil the local pharmacy has to offer and waiting for the inevitable to come.
This time it’s different. This time the moment Gerard found out about Frank’s predicament he decided that the best course of action is to come over and keep hovering over him until Frank feels better — or at least can stand up on his own. Which is exactly how Frank discovers himself safely tucked in bed and wrapped in what feels like every blanket Gerard could find in his apartment. And the worst thing is, Frank can’t even feel grateful for all the attention he gets; his mind is too clouded, he can barely hold onto the basic sensations, he is too hot and at the same time can’t stop shivering, and his body feels too heavy, pinned to the bed. He can barely move, though the amount of blankets piled on his body might be the reason for it.
Gerard touches Frank’s forehead with a concerned look on his face.
“Yep, you’re gonna live,” he smiles.
“No. I’m going to die,” Frank mumbles. “Stupid cold.”
Gerard gently brushes Frank’s damp hair from his face, and Frank involuntarily leans into the touch. Some part of him wants to protest, wants to tell Gerard to leave before he catches the cold himself, but his voice refuses to obey him. All Frank can muster is another coughing fit; he barely has time to turn away to avoid coughing all his germs right into Gerard’s face.
He hates being sick. He hates autumns, he hates the cold he catches every time no matter how hard he tries to avoid it, and he hates his stupid immune system for being so weak.
“You’ll be alright,” Gerard says. “I’m gonna make you some tea, okay?”
Frank mumbles something incomprehensible and sneezes. It’s getting too hard to keep his eyes open, and the blanket suddenly feels so soft and comforting.
He’s just going to close his eyes for a moment. Only for a moment. He can keep himself from falling asleep.
When Frank opens his eyes again the room is dim, with the only source of light being the bedside lamp. It takes a few moments for his vision to adjust before he notices a mug of tea on the bedside table. The tea has long since gone cold, a sad soggy slice of lemon is floating on the surface. At first Frank thinks that he has slept for too long and Gerard got tired and went home but then his gaze falls on the armchair in the corner of the room, by the window. Gerard is sound asleep, curled into himself, and the position looks painfully uncomfortable. The blanket he covered himself with has slid down on the floor; Frank thinks he can see Gerard shiver slightly — the window doesn’t fully close, Frank never had the time to get the landlord to fix it, so the draft is a common occurrence, especially in autumn.
Gerard looks adorable. Frank almost doesn’t want to wake him up.
Frank tries to wriggle himself out of the blanket cocoon, reaches for the tea, and at the last moment, when his fingers are almost touching the mug, he sneezes so loudly it instantly wakes Gerard up.
Gerard jerks awake. For a few long seconds he stares at Frank with wide eyes before hurriedly scrambling to his feet.
“Sorry,” he stammers. “I didn’t— You were asleep, I didn’t want to wake you up.” He stares at the tea mug on the bedside table. “I’m gonna make you a new one.”
“It’s okay,” Frank coughs. “I feel better.”
He does: his throat doesn’t hurt so much, and his mind is not so foggy anymore.
Gerard offers him an awkward smile.
“That’s good,” he says. “But you still need to—”
“Just stay with me,” Frank interrupts him. “Please.”
Gerard obediently sits on the edge of the bed. His fingers gently wrap around Frank’s hand. Frank shifts his body a little, making himself comfortable, and closes his eyes. Gerard’s hand is warm and a little bit clammy, and Frank wishes he could stay this way forever.
He doesn’t even mind being sick anymore.