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“Mmhmph,” Randy whined, adjusting his seat on the couch. “Oli, uh, did you have anything planned for dinner?”
“Yeah?” Oliver looked at his boyfriend's pathetic state. Oliver always looked at his boyfriend's pathetic state, to be fair, because Randy was always in a pathetic state. But today was unusually extreme, even for him. “I’m making soup. Why?”
“Ah, o– okay.” Randy shot a weak thumbs-up. “That's fine. Just, uh, wanted to know.”
“Right…” Oliver took in the fresh wave of patheticness with some worry. It was like watching a rat joining a glee club. “You all groovy, man?”
“Uh– yeah. ‘m fine.”
“Surrrre,” Oliver replied, clearly unconvinced but unwilling to argue. “I'll start dinner, then.”
⧗☆✦☎️✧★⧖
It was after dinner when Randy started… acting up again.
“Mhmph,” he groaned, leaning his head back against the couch, clearly in some kind of pain.
Oliver sat down next to him, “Dude–”
“Could you–” Randy interrupted him. “Could you not… talk for a while, please?”
“Oh.” Oliver blinked, a little upset, but aware that this must be serious if Randal Jade was willing to stand up for himself over it. (Even if this was the new and improved Randal Jade.) “Sure.”
He did his best to stay quiet and mostly still.
Randy, who clearly had the brain of some kind of half-domesticated, easily startled animal, seemed to take this well. He shifted over and leaned his head onto Oliver's shoulder.
What brought Randy some much deserved peace brought Oliver the fear of a lifetime.
Oliver couldn't move. He could not move.
This man was like a fragile little deer on the side of the road, and any sudden movement could lead him straight into oncoming traffic.
If he moved his shoulder right now, it would probably kill Randy Jade within the hour.
And yet Randy trusted him enough to sit like that willingly.
“Thanks,” Randy muttered, knocking Oliver out of his thoughts, “This is helping.”
“Helping… what, exactly?” the flannel-clad man asked, already scared for the answer.
“Headache.” Randy seemed like he could barely string together a sentence, putting more weight on Oliver. “All day.”
“Oh.” He tried not to sound too concerned, lest he scare Randy off into the main highway/hunting ground. “...Need anything?”
“N– no, it's fine.” Randy let out a soft sigh that Oliver could feel against his skin, “It'll go away.”
“Um…” he wrapped an arm around his most excellent boyfriend, while knowing it was unwise to trust his judgement. “Sure. If you say so.”
It didn't take long for Randy's theory to be proven incorrect.
He was practically shaking now, and it didn’t even seem to be from the pain.
Oliver was used to Randy being in some kind of distress, as that was basically his default setting, but this was strange. Even for him.
He seemed… scared. Genuinely scared. Not in the way he was scared of the swans, or of a mugger, but something deeper that Oliver wished he didn't recognise.
Burying his face into the red flannel of his partner's shirt, Randy groaned again.
Oliver tried to stay quiet, knowing if he spoke now, Randy would either startle or, at the very least, worry. Oliver held him tighter, though, careful not to mess with the bandages.
Randy seemed like he was on the brink of tears.
Oliver would’ve given anything to have had his mind stay on topic, stay with the thought of what he could do here, of what could help. Of course, being him, his brain drifted back to grief.
Randy was in pain. He was injured, and nothing could be done.
There was nothing they could do that would really help enough.
And Oliver would end up alone again.
Like he always knew he would.
While he drifted into that slight dissociation, staring into nothing in particular just behind anything that mattered, Randy had started to cry.
And suddenly, Oliver was way too aware of both his boyfriend's mortality and the tears soaking through his shirt.
“Hey, you sure I can't do anything?” Oliver spoke up, wanting to help. His voice came out rushed and uneven, causing the other man to pull back.
Randy seemed just a little startled at his tone, but didn't react as much as Oliver had anticipated. Maybe ‘fragile little deer on the side of the road’ was a tad hyperbolic. “I– I'm fine.” his voice shook, and he wiped his face. “Kind of just wanna go to bed, to be honest, but–”
He was cut off by a swift, “Then go?” like that was the clear thing to do, despite the lack of a setting sun or any willingness to hear out Randy’s argument.
“Well, I– I guess you're right,” he pried himself off the couch to get ready for bed.
Oliver shifted on the couch, somehow less comfortable without Randy's weight there to reassure him.
What if that stupid fucking head injury was a real problem agian? What if he was like– really sick? Oh, Rotary-Christ, Oliver didn't even know where the nearest hospital was!
“Hey,” Randy walked back into the room, a weary but somehow reassuring smile on his face, “Don't worry about me being actually sick or anything, I just remembered that I did not drink any water yesterday, and it was, like, ninety degrees. And I was being chased by Swans all day.”
(That should have been an odd thing for anyone to say, especially an ex-swan wrangler, but, unfortunately, the swans' hatred for Randy didn’t stop when he quit.)
“Oh,” Oliver didn't mean to sound as positive as he did, but the relief was immediate enough that he couldn't stop himself. “Phone-Lord, okay. Cool. Go drink some fucking water, then, jeez.”
Randy chuckled softly, and Oliver heard the tap on the other side of the apartment turn on.
⧖⧗☆✦☎️✧★⧗⧖
In the morning, Randy seemed… slightly better. Which, come to think of it, may have been his usual state.
He slept in till ten, which was fine –it was a Saturday– and thankfully, with a double income, that meant he didn't have work. The headache had cleared, which was a plus, but he got a nosebleed immediately upon waking.
“You doin’ okay, dude?” Oliver asked, handing him a shabbily-made breakfast.
“Mm,” Randy mumbled back, before he saw the plate and laughed. “This– this is for me?”
“Yeah,” Oliver gave him an almost comically blank stare, “What, you don't like my cooking?”
“No, no, you're–” he glanced back at the meal: Half brunt, crumpled toast, an egg with far too much salt, and… something else? Sauce, he hopped, but it could've been an attempt at another component. “You're a regular Matha Stewart.”
Oliver chuckled back, glad Randy seemed a bit cheered up. “Right. Well, it's edible, and I know you've eaten worse.”
“You’ve got me there…” Randy nodded, trailing off as he was handed a glass of bright orange liquid. “What– What is this?”
“Um… I think the box said ‘Ready to Drink Electrolyte Solution’...” Oliver squinted around the kitchen, looking for the box.
“Righttt…” the liquid swirled, “And, uhhh, that would mean?”
Oliver held the package out so Randy could read it.
“Oh!” His voice rose with the realisation, “For dehydration, right.”
“Yeah!” Oliver’s enthusiasm wasn’t dulled by the fact that he was still reading the box himself. “And it says you can’t dilute it. So good luck with that.”
“Eugh.” Randy looked back at the glass in his hand, then to the box. It was definitely off-brand, probably on sale. As he quickly glanced for an expiry date, Randy spotted a drink bottle on the kitchen counter.
Oliver had gone out and got this for him, and it couldn’t have been later than seven am when he left.
It was, by far, the sweetest thing anyone had ever done just for Randal Jade. Even if it did taste like badly orange-flavoured medicine. “Thank you, Oli. Really.”
Oliver shot him a grin and thumbs-up back. “You’re welcome. But next time I’m gonna get the worst flavour so you learn your lesson.”
"There's a worse flavour?"