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Being a med student, Conrad was ever so careful about keeping his vaccines up to date. Normally he spaced them out so he wouldn’t feel like he’d been hit by a truck because of the side effects, but he had a long weekend coming up so he figured it was as safe a time as any to get both his COVID and flu vaccines. Prone to getting the flu, Conrad always got his vaccine. Sometimes he still contracted it, sometimes he didn’t, but he trusted in science so he kept getting the shot. Belly warned him that the last time he did this several years ago he ended up laid up in bed, but Conrad argued that he wasn’t as physically fit at that point in time and he was certain he could handle it now. She stocked up on Tylenol and gatorade while Conrad was in classes for the day.
He came back that afternoon with a bandaid on each arm, already wincing as he lifted his right hand to unlock the door to the apartment. The nurse tech administering the shot had asked him his preference on which vaccine went in which arm. Knowing that it was better to get the shot that resulted in the most soreness in your dominant arm because you moved it more, Conrad offered up his left arm first for the less painful flu shot. He wasn’t sure if he was imagining it, but he swore that even the needle going into his arm hurt more for the COVID vaccine.
The soreness hit sooner than he’d expected and he had to use more force than usual to twist the doorknob. It wasn’t just aching, he felt like his grip was weaker. But when Belly greeted him at the doorway with her luminous smile he forgot that he’d ever been jabbed with the needles in the first place.
“How was it?”
“Fine. I forgot how much the COVID shot hurts.”
Belly let a playful smirk splay itself across her face. “You forget every time.”
“Do I?”
He did, and she always teased him for his selective memory.
The discomfort progressed slowly over the next few hours, and it was so gradual that Conrad didn’t notice it at first. His arms had mostly stuck by his side as he was reading his textbooks or chatting with Belly on the couch, but when he placed his hands on the edge of the couch to push himself up, he felt himself letting out a soft, pained sound accompanied by a grimace. It was quiet but enough to grab Belly’s attention.
Conrad insisted he was fine, because he was; it was nothing but a bit of an ache, he was completely alright. In reality he didn’t share how much his deltoid muscles burned with each movement he made. He managed to hoist himself up off the couch without reflecting any more of the pain on his face or with his vocal cords.
He tried to help with dinner but Belly didn’t let him carry his weight as much as he would’ve liked. The scent of sautéed mushrooms filled the air, the minced garlic in the pan diffusing its savory aroma. Belly had become a great cook and Conrad was always grateful when she made any meal, but tonight he couldn’t decide if he was ravenous or queasy; the feelings kept swapping one for the other. She was making chicken marsala for him. Ever since they’d officially gotten together she made him swear they wouldn’t be making nearly plain chicken every night. If they were going to eat the poultry so often they were going to spice it up—literally and metaphorically. Sauces were important in Conrad’s life now more than ever. Every time Belly hounded him about adding one to a meal she reminded him of Toni Collette in Mickey 17 and her obsession with sauces. Belly hadn’t seen the movie and never understood why he chuckled softly to himself as she combined ingredients.
Normally his jobs included any heavy-lifting, like lifting pots full of water and pasta or potatoes or whatever else Belly was boiling and draining them, but today she refused to let him pick up anything that would strain his arms. He was allowed to measure out the pasta, dump it into the pot, and stir the sauce while Belly focused on other tasks. She always worked so efficiently, nose scrunching and eyebrows furrowing as she chopped and diced. Conrad stood back and swung his arms around in slow windmills to try and help the budding pain, careful not to knock anything over with his lanky limbs. Belly couldn’t help but snicker as she looked over and was met with the sight of her boyfriend swinging his arms in circles, his expression turning sheepish as he noticed her watchful eye.
“What?”
“Nothing.” A puckish grin contradicted her brief statement and lit Conrad’s cheeks right up.
He paused his movement and shrugged, scratching the back of his neck and smiling bashfully. “You know, you’re supposed to do it. It helps. They tell you to do it.”
“Sure, sure.”
“They do!”
The moment felt light and easy, always natural with the two of them. Teasing words rolled off their tongues, always followed by those full of affection and care. They both had the capacity to make the other squirm, even now, after not only just being together for so long but also having known each other their entire lives. It was exciting—electric, even. The power never went out, didn’t even flicker.
His heart skipped several beats when Belly nearly spilled the pot of boiling water all over herself in an attempt to pour its contents into the strainer but she refused all help. All he could do was stand there while she settled the pot on the counter and tilted it forward. His hands entwined themselves automatically while he tried to quell his nerves. Being helpless was not something Conrad Fisher was used to.
After all of the effort she’d gone through to make something warm and comforting, he couldn’t help but take small bites even when he felt like he couldn’t anymore.
Conrad wasn’t sure what made him so sleepy after dinner, the heavy meal or the side effects of his vaccines. It had been about seven hours since he’d been pricked and he was starting to feel it. He rubbed his eyes after boxing up the leftovers while Belly scrubbed the pans. He insisted he could help but she refused to let him lift a finger. She directed him to the couch as she finished up the dishes, telling him to get comfy and pick something he wanted to watch. Conrad usually had very little preference—well, that wasn’t true, he did have an opinion, but he always liked to let Belly pick. She had good taste and seeing her smile as he approved her decision was worth watching any movie or TV show, even on the rare occasion it turned out to be garbage. Today though, he was glad to choose.
He knew exactly which streaming service to pull up to find his favorite movie–Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb. He’d made Belly watch it years ago and she hadn’t quite gotten the appeal, but she knew she loved hearing Conrad giggle at the constant–and sometimes dragging–bits.
Parading into the living room, Belly balanced two mugs of hot cocoa, a bowl of popcorn, a glass of water and a bag of chocolates in her arms. It drove Conrad crazy every time she piled as many objects in her arms as humanly possible, but to her credit she never seemed to drop any. Jeremiah, however, always attempted the same feat and almost always dropped at least one thing. Belly’s movements were graceful and she knew exactly how to plan her dismount without spilling so much as a drop of liquid. Conrad watched her intently, heart warming, but couldn’t bring a smile to his cheeks. He felt it in his chest but his face didn’t cooperate.
Belly swiveled around from the coffee table where she’d emptied her arms and was struck by hazy, loving eyes. Overall his expression was almost completely neutral, but she could feel his affection for her radiating through his gaze. Dramatic as ever, she feigned passing out onto his lap, falling slowly and perfectly against his chest. This time she pulled a smile out of him. They spent a few minutes admiring one another before Belly reached for the remote. The TV had gone black well before she’d come back into the room.
“Let me guess…Dr. Strangelove?”
“How’d you know?” Conrad teased. He always picked either that or Ferris Bueller’s Day Off when he wasn’t feeling well; one of Belly’s first clues.
She settled against his lap so they could both see the TV, not letting on that she was observing his behavior. “Maybe I’ll get it this time,” she murmured against Conrad’s ear. He let out a huff of air that she assumed was his low-energy version of a chuckle.
As the movie played he faded faster than either of them had thought. Every few minutes he’d shift and stretch out his arm just to make a face of discomfort, and sometimes even a gasp when the pain was worse than he’d anticipated. His flu shot arm was fine, it was the COVID shot arm that was so rigid and stiff it felt like he was dislocating something each time he moved his hand above his waist. It stole his attention from the film in front of him and all of Peter Sellers’ characters, his focus on alleviating the ache instead of the jokes that typically shook his shoulders with hearty laughter. Belly clocked it each time he missed out on one of his favorite bits, from either working with his arm or the daze he’d fallen into. When he barely reacted to the extensive phone call between U.S. President Merkin Muffley and the Russian President Dmitri, she knew something was wrong.
The line, “I’m capable of being just as sorry as you are,” passed with what Belly could barely classify as a tired laugh from her boyfriend and she considered sending him to bed. But then he adjusted his position curling right up into her and she thought she couldn’t tell him to get up for a million dollars.
They stayed that way far after the movie ended, Conrad asking Belly silly questions about it and her providing whatever made-up answers she could.
Her second clue that Conrad was feeling worse than he was letting on was his eyes fluttering shut as he laid against her, the clock only reading 9:27pm. He was a night owl and an early riser which Belly never understood. Sometimes she could be either, but never both. Him nearly drifting off before 10pm was nearly unheard of.
“Hey sleepyhead.”
“Mmm? I’m awake.”
Sure he was. “You wanna move this party under some thick blankets and fluffy pillows?”
A complete lack of hesitation or argument was Belly’s third clue. It wasn’t like Conrad to give in without a fight when someone was trying to force him to get some rest. He nodded tiredly against her chest and she almost wanted to tell him to wait five minutes more so she could hold him like this.
Slowly, they rose from the couch, Conrad letting out a few more audible curses as his arms gave him even more trouble. Belly had never seen him experience stiffness like this from a vaccine but she’d heard that getting both flu and COVID shots at the same time really did a number on people.
“You o-”
“Yeah, I’m fine.”
Despite the strain in his voice, Belly knew not to push. He never meant to pact like a jerk, but they both knew how on edge he could get when he wasn’t feeling great. Her fourth clue came quicker than she’d thought. She let him struggle to push himself off the couch, wise enough not to wait for the request for help that would never come. She didn’t ask if it hurt either, knowing he’d just avoid the question. It wasn’t worth the mental gymnastics it would take both of them to get through a conversation like this.
The journey upstairs was fine but everything that came after it turned out to be a shit show. Conrad decided to skip a shower, unable to get his arm above his head to wash his hair and refusing to let Belly do it for him. He insisted that because he’d showered in the morning he was fine, but she knew he always liked to rinse off after coming home from a long day. Then he struggled to brush his teeth, leaning over halfway because even bending his arm was a challenge. Removing his shirt took an incredible amount of effort, sliding his left arm through the hole and hoisting the garment up his neck and over his head, then shimmying it down his right arm. He slept shirtless often enough and decided it wouldn’t be too out of the ordinary for him not to replace the piece of clothing. The only issue was that he was starting to shiver, and goosebumps sprouted over his bare skin. The blankets were calling his name.
Having believed he was finally through the worst of it, Conrad flopped onto their bed in his normal position and then regretted it with every fiber of his being.
“Ow, god fucking damnit!”
Belly’s attention turned sharply away from her phone and toward her boyfriend who was still muttering curses under his breath. “What happened?”
“Nothing, I just…” he paused to sigh, “I just landed on my arm too hard when I laid down. Hurt really fucking badly.”
The pained look still ghosted over his soft features sunk Belly’s heart to the bottom of her stomach. She offered a small sound of sympathy and a hand applying the right amount of pressure to his stiff shoulders.
He quickly shot down her offer to find some painkillers, insisting that the pain was manageable and he’d just fucked up by lying down on his arm. He was fine.
As much as she wanted to get some Tylenol in him, Belly acquiesced.
She stirred several times throughout the night as Conrad twisted and turned in the sheets, trying every position possible that might put a little less strain on his shoulder. He could deal with the slight soreness from lying down on his left arm–the flu shot really hadn’t been that bad–but no matter which way he situated himself his right arm always seemed to protest sooner or later. Belly never let him know he’d woken her; he’d feel horribly guilty for keeping her from her precious sleep, and he’d feel caught and trapped. Letting him be was one of the hardest things she had to do, but she was getting better at it.
Belly rose for the day much earlier than Conrad, which was surprising in general as he was always an early bird, but she wasn’t shocked after his restlessness. She admired his knit brows and frequent twitches as he dreamed, but could only do so for so long before her stomach started rumbling. She held her gaze for just a little bit longer, letting the warm light bronze his sweet face, focusing on his lips as he murmured to himself. She told him she loved him and swore he shifted closer to her before hoisting herself out of bed.
When the smell of dark-roast coffee wafted through the apartment and he still hadn’t woken, an increasing urge to check on her boyfriend filled Belly’s mind and body. She told herself he was exhausted–not just from the side effects of his vaccines–and let him get as much rest as he needed. Without any alarms set, she hoped his body would let its defenses down and give him an opportunity to relax.
Once he finally awoke he was groggy well past stepping into the kitchen, picking at his breakfast and sipping at his coffee half-heartedly. The plate Belly kept under the heat lamp for him ended up going to waste as he finished less than half.
He didn’t have to vocalize it, but she could tell that he was upset with her for letting him sleep well into the day. There wasn’t anything on the agenda but he hated feeling like he was wasting his time. His standards for activities weren’t high–they settled on watching a movie–but at least he’d be doing something.
Several times Belly caught her boyfriend stifling a yawn or nearly falling asleep, only being brought back to the moment when his head would droop down and he’d snap right back up again. She did feel her stomach flutter when Conrad nuzzled his head against her shoulder, neck still craned so he could pretend to watch whatever show Belly had thrown on. As the minutes passed by, she felt a growing heat to her side. Sure, Conrad always ran warm, but not like this. It was like Belly had draped her heated blanket over herself and turned it up to the highest setting.
With a sigh, Belly paused the show and turned to look at Conrad. He knew why she’d stopped it but he asked why anyway.
Her fingers rippled through his waves of mussed up chocolate locks and he nuzzled against her hand like a foal. Slight heat emanated from his skin, enough for Belly to notice, and she rested her hand on Conrad’s forehead to make sure.
“I want to take your temperature. And you’re barely watching anyway.”
He tried to protest, insisting he was paying attention, but one pointed look from his girlfriend shut him down instantaneously. Her narrowed eyes seemed to allow her to glimpse into his soul the way she always did, and lying was no longer an option. He became so caught up in her concerned expression he let his eyes wander in a slow pattern over her delicate features. A wrinkle spanned her forehead, a result of furrowed brows over her tender yet stern gaze. The bridge of her nose was almost undetectably pinched, but Conrad always knew what to look for. Her lips were pursed until she cracked her mouth open to wet them. He could tell she wanted chapstick, but also that she wasn’t worried about herself right now. Her newly lubricated lips started moving but Conrad wasn’t listening. He watched her crinkled brows raise as he failed to react to her words. Only the palm of her hand against his warm cheek pulled him out of his thoughts.
“I need to get up.”
Conrad grunted half-heartedly, not wanting her to move but knowing she’d already made her mind up on doting after him. An object in motion stays in motion, or whatever Newton had said, and he didn’t have the force to stop her.
He wanted to lie down. In his mind it wasn’t necessary to measure his temperature; they both knew he had a fever and that was that. It didn’t need to get more complicated. Mostly he didn’t want to deal with her scolding him from hiding it for as long as he had been. But he knew that letting her look after him would make her feel better, more useful, and he no longer had the energy to make a fuss.
Orders were followed with quiet obedience when Belly returned with the thermometer. He even let her put the instrument in his mouth for him, not wanting to get into the whole I-can’t-move-my-arm thing again. A cross-eyed glance at the screen told Conrad he was in for some trouble.
A shrill beep sounded and Belly plucked the thermometer from Conrad’s mouth before he had the chance to steal it. She tried to keep her composure as she read the results. “One hundred and one. Christ, Conrad, don’t you ever–” she cut herself off, knowing that getting worked up would only add fuel to the fire. “How long have you felt feverish? Be honest.”
“Uhhhh…don’t be mad.”
“Conrad-”
“Please?”
He was determined to drive her stress levels through the roof, Belly thought. “Fine.”
“Last night before bed.”
Belly nearly lost her cool when Conrad reminded her of the promise she’d just made. She wanted to tell him and his promise to fuck right off, but she didn’t. All she did instead was fetch the Tylenol from the bathroom cabinet, feed her boyfriend two pills, and lead him to bed.
He dozed for nearly two hours. Belly stayed by his side for the first twenty minutes but realized she could get some things done while Conrad was down for the count. Laundry was done, dishes were put away, to-do lists were updated, and a few chapters of a book were read as Belly slipped back into bed. She used one hand to turn the pages and the other to caress Conrad’s cheek every time he muttered in his sleep.
No longer able to focus on the book, Belly got out of bed once more. She looked at the time and noticed it was nearing five o’clock. Where had the day gone? It didn’t matter–she needed to start planning dinner. Given Conrad’s minimal appetite for breakfast and the fact that he’d skipped lunch, Belly needed to get some food into him. It was likely that he wouldn’t want to eat, so something light and comforting was warranted. Sifting through the ingredients in their cabinets, Belly realized she didn’t have much to work with. A bag of golden potatoes on the counter called her name, and she figured that if she whipped the potatoes enough it would be easy for Conrad to digest them.
Before she could work out the rest of her meal, Belly heard an alarm sounding from the bedroom. It was quickly silenced. She expected Conrad to emerge from the bedroom any minute, but all she was met with was the same sound just under ten minutes later. He didn’t make an appearance this time either. For the next forty minutes, Belly heard him snooze his alarm about five times.
When he finally stirred enough to make some noise in the bedroom, Belly grabbed a Gatorade from the fridge and pocketed the thermometer, then strolled over to the door. She knocked lightly and entered before receiving a response. Conrad was sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes and grimacing at the movement.
“Hey.”
Conrad’s voice was gravelly when his delayed response finally came. “Hey.”
“Can I take your temperature again?”
Not even bothering to give a verbal response, Conrad let his jaw drop open. Belly slipped the thermometer under his tongue and closed his mouth with a gentle push under his chin.
The number had gone down, but not as much as Belly would’ve liked. She thrusted the Gatorade bottle into Conrad’s hand and waited while he drained the first half, shifting the bottle between hands as he took turns lifting each arm up.
He remembered the piece of advice about getting the COVID shot in his dominant arm and contemplated if it had been the best idea. Sure, he did use his dominant arm more and that would likely help reduce soreness to some degree, but now his arm hurt so goddamn badly that he couldn’t even do anything with it. He’d thought surely the night before had been the worst of it, but his body seemed determined to prove him wrong. Each movement made him feel like he was pulling something out of its socket. It was way beyond the typical stiffness he was used to. When Belly caught him wincing once more, he tried to lighten the mood.
“Maybe it’s the microchip they put in there.”
As much as she was still frustrated with him, Belly couldn’t help but give in. Quiet laughter filled the dark room for the first time since Conrad had come home yesterday. She pulled herself onto the bed and beckoned him to come closer.
Her gentle ministrations on his scalp nearly lulled him to sleep, but his hazy brain started thinking about how greasy his hair was and how dirty it must’ve felt in Belly’s hands.
“Need to shower.”
“I don’t want you under the hot water with a fever. Remember when you almost passed out a few months ago when you had the flu?”
“Mmm. Yeah. My bad.”
Belly rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. “When your temperature goes down I’ll wash your hair for you, okay?”
“With your nice shampoo?”
“With my nice shampoo, yes.”
“Mm. Thank you.”
Oh, how Belly loved when Conrad would finally give in and let her dote on him. He’d become soft and sweet and the greatest of all–compliant. He melted under her fingers and whined when they let go of him.
She always thought that this time would be what it took for him to realize he could let himself fall apart around her, but the occasion hadn’t come. She’d keep trying anyway.