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Andrew rarely ever gets sick, so when he does he gets hit like it’s been stockpiling in his body. It’s been years since he’s gotten sick, but here he is now, rotting away on the too-hot couch for his too-hot skin, left nostril stuffed the other running, and his head pounding like exy balls bouncing around in his skull.
Andrew thinks it’s a testament to his sickness that he is consciously making comparisons with exy.
He considers getting up, forcing himself to go to practice. If only to stand in the goal doing nothing to preserve his pride. But, when he shifts his arm in an attempt to get up, his skull pulses like it’s been shot and he gives up immediately.
Fuck Kevin. Fuck him for convincing the coach that playing the last 20 minutes of practice in the rain was a good idea. The second he can get up he's throwing away all his protein power. The only reason he's not going to destroy his whole blender is for the simple reason that Kevin was smart enough to book it after taking one look at Andrew this morning.
The door clicks open.
Andrew runs a mental note of everyone’s class times and tries to figure out who the hell would be back to the dorm this early on a Monday, and comes up blank. Everyone in his small circle of people has a class right now, except for Kevin, who is at the court, smartly avoiding Andrew.
He doesn’t get the time to force himself to lift his head and look (glare) at who it is before ginger hair enters his eyesight as Neil squats in front of the couch, looking at him questionably.
Fuck Neil too, actually. For good measure. Fuck his brain too, for thinking about the literal way while he can barely move a muscle. He can already feel a leg cramp coming from where it is tangled together with the blanket, tense.
“You going to get up?,” Neil questions.
Andrew takes a moment to appreciate the non-babying tone. Nicky, the last time Andrew was sick, wasn't as smart. Andrew’s bedroom door in Columbia, still has the mark of a knife being embedded in it after Nicky decided it was a good idea to knock on his door with such a tone.
“No.” Andrew scowls, almost like a curse.
Neil doesn’t respond to that besides a shrug, and an annoying twitch of his lips that shows he’s trying not to smile.
Andrew gets a flash of what he must look like right now. Draped in two blankets, cuddled up like some dying Victorian child, with a noticeable sniffle and warm face. He can feel his left eye watering too like a cherry to top off a hell ice-cream Sunday. The thought of his horrible picture makes his teeth clench.
“Stop being stubborn and take the medication,” Neil says, like a hypocrite.
Before Andrew can even say so, though, Neil scoffs.
“I know. But you’re not me, so take the meds.”
If Andrew were the type he would have rolled his eyes. Like he would ever want to be a junkie.
While Andrew was stuck in his thoughts, listing all the reasons he would never want to be a red-headed guy named Neil, not even the top three being the unfortunate son of a serial killer, he got a glass of water shoved in his hand with pills floating at the top.
Andrew flicks a finger at Neil, who huffs but walks away. Andrew waits until he can hear the sound of his shoes on the tiles of the kitchen before he looks back at the water.
Andrew’s eyebrows pinch but he downs the water, and similarly shoves down his pride as he curls up deeper into the blankets, hoping the pressure would relax the tension in his bones.
It doesn’t.
He must have dozed off though, cause when he comes back to the present, Neil is sitting on the couch next to him. Close enough for Andrew’s feet to feel his body heat, but not enough to touch.
“Up?” Neil says, and it’s almost like he was waiting for it, as he shoves another glass in Andrew’s hand.
Andrew blinks the fuzziness around his eyes, looking at the second glass of water with two pills floating at the top.
He huffs but drinks it, placing it on the couch table, not even caring that the condensation is gonna create another ring on the wood.
Kevin can go complain to someone who cares, Andrew thinks, closing his eyes.
Neil stands up from his side of the couch and when Andrew opens his eyes again, Neil is once again crouched in front of him, staring at him.
Neil’s hand comes to hover right above Andrew’s messed-up hair. Andrew’s eyes follow the hand, and he doesn’t look back at Neil even as he asks,
“Yes or no?”
“Do what you want,” Andrew grumbles, actually grumbles, before he closes his eyes again, not wanting to have the urge to look at Neil. Doesn't want to look at the blue eyes looking at him with amusement and, annoyingly, concern too.
A hand settles on the top of his head. The scar-covered hand stays still for a moment, almost like waiting to be shoved off, before the fingers spread through his hair, then bend inwards in scratching and soothing motions.
Andrew can’t stop the way his shoulders lose their tension, nor the way he clenches his hands in the blanket he is gripping.
He continues to match the grip of his hands on the blankets to the motion of Neil's hands, clenching and unclenching, unconsciously, till he is too tired to do so.
He doesn’t want to describe the touch as gentle. He and Neil are anything but that. But he also can’t think of a different name with his brain banging around in his skull so instead he shoves the thought away and focuses on the motions of Neil’s hand on his scalp.
All Andrew hears before he dozes off again is a whisper from Neil.
“Like a cat.”