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It was a few nights ago when Andrew moved in.
“Don’t worry, I knew you told me to pack light,” he says, chuckling almost awkwardly, holding a hefty box of items. The package itself looks like it’d been reused from some packaging service, the sticker on the side somewhat peeled off. The word “MOVING” is scribbled hastily in black marker, then below it, reading something Ivan couldn’t decipher.
The rest of the night was spent sorting through boxes, revisiting old memories, and a night on the rooftop. They talked.
Andrew talked.
Ivan talked.
He talked, and maybe that was his first mistake. Spilling his past right to Andrew, the detail of his father, who ran into that building and wound up being only a scorched-up shell of himself, who wound up in a casket that Ivan should’ve never opened. He recalls how Andrew looked at him, his brows having creased, face blanketed with concern and worry. Ivan reminds himself that his friend’s words aren’t meant to be pitiful.
But it’s how Andrew tries to get closer. His voice grew softer, his tone gentler as he tried to be there for him. Ivan can’t understand why. He’s not even crying– he’s not upset, if he was, he would know. All he said is that his father…
… That was a few nights ago.
He’s folding his clothes on the couch, some news channel playing in the background. He comes across his usual blue sweater, until one of Andrew’s stark pink hoodies is suddenly in his hands. It’s warm. Distinctly, it smells just like–
–Wait a minute.
He looks back at his sweater. It’s lighter in some places where it shouldn’t be, where he knows it was that deep sea blue, and nothing more. He’s almost sure of it– there’s the faintest hint of pink somewhere there, on the upper center of his sweater. Looking at Andrew's hoodie, there’s blue splotches on the sleeves.
Ivan takes in a breath. He must’ve done the laundry wrong. Andrew’s fond of these hoodies in particular, he’s not sure why, but when he gets home…
… The thought of just tossing it crosses Ivan’s mind. As quick as it appears, it’s gone, as he’ll settle for just telling Andrew straight up. Hopefully, he’ll forgive him.
The conversation is already playing out in his head. From how Andrew will come through the door, to how his face will contort when he sees the ruined hoodie, to how his downcast expression turns into one that’ll be paired with a: “It’s alright, don’t even worry about it, ‘kay?” He’ll smile, and then act like it never happened.
He’s not home yet. Ivan keeps the two ruined clothes at the top of their respective piles, eyeing them even as he gets up from the couch.
The doorbell rings. Andrew’s back. His computer is in his hands, and he’s smiling, saying something about how “the repair guy there, really nice, actually, said it’s pretty awesome how my computer lasted that long, haha,” and then asks Ivan how he’s been. Ivan knows he replies, he must’ve said something, because that smile still lasts. In only a moment, he’d been standing at the door to greet his friend, then facing the couch– facing his mistake.
… It’s hot in here. Somehow, Andrew isn’t affected.
“Hey, it’s not a big deal,” Andrew says. He picks up the hoodie, inspecting it. Ivan watches him as he turns it around, flips it over, surveys the damage. He’s ready for it. That look, that smile, that–
“Reminds me of paintball. Always wanted to try that.” Andrew looks at Ivan. The corner of his mouth is turned upward, shoulders lax. “You don’t usually mess up this sort of stuff, but hey, it’s no big deal. Imagine what I might’ve done, y’know?” He pats Ivan’s shoulder reassuringly, leaning forward a little– trying to meet Ivan’s faraway gaze.
It’s not a big deal. It’s just some stupid mistake, one that shouldn’t have been made at all. But here he is. He made it anyway, and his friend has to suffer.
Andrew says something about having dinner. They’ll make his family’s recipe, the one they both like. Ivan makes his way to the kitchen with Andrew. His hands grab ahold of the ingredients and pass them to Andrew, and from there, he knows they had dinner. He knows they sat on the couch together, watching a bad movie Andrew picked out.
Ivan knows that at some point, he’d done the dishes, and told Andrew he could head to bed. He’d take care of the clothes tomorrow.
……
The next day comes. Andrew’s working on his game again. When he sees Ivan awake, he’s looking at him a little oddly, asking that question. He offers to make breakfast, to which Ivan shakes his head– he could’ve sworn he said he’d make it, judging by how he stands at the kitchen stove. A frying pan, a light blanket of butter sizzling, an egg to his right with a spatula beside it. Salt and pepper shakers sit there, just a small distance away. The toaster is running; he must’ve put in a bagel for Andrew. Did he even split it?
Quickly, he checks, forgetting that the surface of the toaster tends to be hot. He figures that out after jumping backward, mind finally regaining clarity for a moment as he registers pain.
Andrew calls out his name. He asks that question.
Ivan says something back.
Andrew replies, but sounds wary.
The egg is placed beside the bagel, which has a light amount of cream cheese spread over it. He tries to remember if Andrew likes his eggs peppered. His head is unusually fuzzy, it’s not even that early in the morning. He woke up on time, didn’t he? No, he didn’t. He woke up late, if anything. Usually Andrew wouldn’t be working on the game when he wakes.
He settles for a light peppering of the egg. There’s another one being made, just in case. He’ll eat this one if Andrew doesn’t like it.
… His stomach churns at the thought of actually eating it.
Ivan swallows it down. The plate in hand, he returns to their room. Andrew’s hunched over the desk, rubbing at his temple. He perks up when he hears Ivan’s footsteps, turns in his chair, and greets him with a smile.
“We’re out of…” Ivan scrambles to remember. His throat feels scratchy.
“Orange juice? Yeah, I saw.”
Ivan puts the plate next to Andrew’s keyboard. “If the egg isn’t right, I’ll have it. I couldn’t remember if you liked it with or without pepper.”
Andrew looks it over. He starts to laugh.
Ivan’s legs feel a little unsteady. What’s he even laughing for? Did he really mess up his meal that badly?
“Ivan, I’ve never told you that. But, hey, I do like them with pepper. Too much makes it all…” He shivers. “Leaves a weird aftertaste. Thanks though.” He scoots back, the wheels of the chair rolling smoothly against the floor. “Wanna eat on the couch together? I’m kind of uh, hitting a roadblock. Need a break, anyway.”
“Alright.” He nods. He makes his way to the door, briefly holding the frame. “I’ll make my plate in the meantime.”
God, the thermostat has to be set up to the highest it’s ever been. It’s getting harder to stay upright in this heat. It’s not even winter yet.
In a blink, he’s back in the kitchen, turning the knob of the toaster to its highest setting. It’s getting to him now, the heat, the weight on his head and how his body insists on trying to fold under all the pressure. Maybe he can ask Andrew to turn the thermostat down– he’s not even sure how it got this bad. It might’ve been him misreading it. His vision’s been a bit blurry lately. There’s something playing on the TV. The toaster is humming. The stove is on, butter sizzling. The kitchen light buzzes. Ivan fumbles for the fridge handle, opening it, feeling a wave of relief overcome him as the cold air hits his face.
The thought of moving into the fridge seems awfully nice right now. The freezer, even, sounds appealing.
“Ivan? You coming?”
He stiffens, and then looks up, closing the fridge. He should be feeling better now. “Yeah,” he replies, quieting immediately when he realizes how scratchy he sounds. When Andrew doesn’t respond, he feels a semblance of relief that he didn’t notice. Or maybe he does, and doesn’t comment on it. He hopes it isn’t the latter.
Another blink. He’s taking the egg off the pan, turning the stove off. The toaster beeps. Another blink. He’s reaching for the silverware. His hand fumbles to get the fork and knife. He’s not sure what happens afterward. The world teetered, the floor rushed to meet him, he must’ve slipped. Of course. It’s dark for a few moments, until things return to him, darkness spotting his vision, senses slowly coming back. His head is ringing, an aching pain on his side. He winces when a hand touches it, but it’s cold– a welcome relief to the heat coursing through his body.
Ivan can hear him now, see him: Andrew, his face close to his, saying something that Ivan can’t make out. Against the brightness of the kitchen, Andrew’s figure is a welcome sight, almost shielding him from the light. One of his hands is on Ivan’s shoulder, the other hovering on the side of his head. He seems more distressed about this than Ivan– he doesn’t know why.
Ivan closes his eyes, sinking into darkness.
……
Blearily, the world returns to him. The ceiling is a mirage of muddled colors, the fan spinning slowly, round and round like a carousel. The lighting in the room is dim, the lamp having been set to what he assumes is its lowest setting. Distantly, there’s the clicking of what he recognizes as Andrew’s keyboard.
… Slowly, his mind starts to piece things together. His efforts are met with a sharp pain, causing him to wince, too late to stifle it.
The clicking stops. Chair rolling. Footsteps. Andrew is quick to be there, at the side of his bed, leaning down and breathing a sigh of relief. “Hold on, let me just– I’m gonna get you some water.” He steps back, still watching Ivan, as if he were a piece of porcelain on its last limbs, and then quickly rushes to the kitchen.
When he attempts to take a deep breath, his body is wracked with coughs. His arms barely support him as he begins to sit up; quickly, he starts to regret it, his head and upper body feeling heavier by the moment.
Andrew comes back after what feels like an eternity. A glass of cold water is given to him, and when Andrew acknowledges his shaky hands, he places his own around Ivan’s, supporting him halfway.
The water is both a moment of respite, and a harsher wake-up call to his condition. His throat is being torn at, scratched by sandpaper. The cold is a welcome sensation, but all the while, a horrid feeling in his stomach begs him to stop. A wave of nausea threatens to impede, and Ivan drinks faster.
The glass is empty, set aside on the nightstand.
Andrew is quiet for a bit. “Well, that’s a good thing– getting hydrated, and all that,” he says. That optimism in his voice is shaky, uneven. Despite that reassuring look on his face, it only does so much to cover up the worry. “Can I… Ask how you’re feeling?”
Ivan reaches for his hair, feeling it to be tangled in some places. “Not good,” he admits. Saying anything otherwise would sound not only stupid, but be futile. Andrew would refute it in an instant. “What happened?”
His voice couldn’t sound any worse. He tries to clear his throat.
Andrew opens his mouth, then closes it. He looks away for a moment, eventually settling for sitting on the bed. “You, uh…” He runs a hand through his hair. “God, I uh– Sorry, I’m just… I shouldn’t be getting all tripped up over words. You’re the one all bedridden and everything.”
Ivan tries to manage a smile. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not. All this?” He gestures to Ivan. “It’s not right for your friend to just, pass out in your arms on the kitchen floor– Ivan, you were scalding, I don’t even– how long were you feeling like that?”
“... Since… No, before that…” Ivan pauses. “Maybe the day I messed up our laundry. Or before that. It wasn’t that severe back then.”
Andrew’s shoulders lax in the slightest, face softening. He shifts his weight, and seems to inch closer to Ivan. His voice lowers a little. “Alright. Alright, I– Sorry. I don’t wanna snap at you. I don’t mean to.” His hand slides a little closer to where Ivan’s hand lies, placed above the covers. “Is there anything I can, uh, do to help? I haven’t uh, done this before. If you couldn’t tell.” Then, a lightbulb seems to spark. “Actually, scratch that, we’ve got a bunch of medicine and stuff in the bathroom, right? I’ll go get that.” He gets up, but pauses, looking back down at Ivan. “You gonna be okay?”
The words don’t come out at first. He wills himself to speak, but he ends up just looking at Andrew. He wonders how stupid he looks. “Yeah,” he utters. “I’ll be okay.”
“Okay.”
Then, Andrew’s gone.
Ivan sinks into the pillows again, exhaling. His body aches all over, and a part of him is willing to drift off again. He’s not sure how long he can stay awake like this, the heat a constant throb in his head. He’s freezing and too warm at the same time, at a loss for which wins over in priority. Ivan can’t recall the last time he felt like this– aside from the minor fever he had in childhood, which only lasted a few days.
Here he is. “Bedridden,” as Andrew calls it. He lets out a small huff of what should be laughter. He pulls the covers up, hoping it’ll do something to combat the chills that course through his body.
Even in the face of an illness, weighing him down to where the world blurs and distorts into a dark mirage, Andrew is like the sun; a welcome, warm presence; one that Ivan wishes he could be embraced in forever.