Work Text:
andre wakes up wrong.
that’s the first thing he notices. not the heat crawling under his skin, not the way his head feels packed with cotton, but the fact that something’s off. his sheets are twisted around his legs. his mouth tastes like metal. his t-shirt is damp at the collar.
he blinks at the ceiling. it blinks back.
“fuck”, he croaks, and even that sounds bad.
sitting up is a mistake. the room tilts, slow and shaky, and he has to grab the edge of the mattress until it settles again. his forehead is burning. his hands feel cold. he presses the back of one to his cheek, then his neck, like maybe that’ll tell him something useful.
it tells him he’s fucked.
mel snuggled against his side, purring softly in her sleep, brings him a small sense of relief. her warm weight is steady, grounding in a way nothing else is right now, and for a moment he lets himself sink back into the mattress beside her.
he fumbles for his flip phone on the nightstand. misses it the first time. the screen lights up too bright when he finally grabs it, and he squints.
a few notifications wait on the screen. messages from his mom, checking if he’s woken up yet since they left early and didn’t want to disturb him, and the rest from cal.
cal: morning
cal: you alive
cal: hello???
andre stares at the screen for a second, thumb hovering. typing feels like work. existing feels like work. he locks the phone without answering and lets it drop back onto the mattress.
bad idea.
cal knows something’s wrong by noon.
andre’s bad at texting, sure, but he’s not this bad. not on a day when his parents are out of town and they were supposed to meet up to play doom, share a couple beers, and maybe steal some vodka from his dad’s liquor shelf. andre would’ve sent at least one stupid message by now. something sarcastic. something annoying.
a “don’t be late loser”.
or a “bring your own controller because i’m not sharing”.
anything.
silence isn’t normal. not from him.
cal paces his room, phone in hand, chewing on his lip. he checks the screen again even though he knows there’s nothing new. he refreshes it like that’ll magically make a message appear.
cal: dude
cal: im getting bored without u
cal: answerrrrr me
he flops down on his bed, stares at the ceiling for exactly ten seconds before sitting back up again.
maybe andre slept in. maybe his phone died. maybe his parents made him do some chores before they left.
or maybe something happened to him. something bad. maybe he’s sick and passed out. maybe he slipped in the shower and hit his head and is just lying there, unconscious and alone and—
cal shuts that thought down immediately.
he doesn’t like how fast his brain jumps to worse options. he knows he spirals. he knows his brain likes worst-case scenarios a little too much.
still, it doesn’t stop his chest from tightening anyway.
he types, deletes, types again.
cal: you good?
still nothing.
cal exhales hard through his nose, scrubs a hand over his face. andre always answers him. even when he’s busy. even when he’s being a dick on purpose.
this feels different.
cal swings his legs off the bed and stands up, decision already made before he fully realizes it. he grabs his hoodie, shoves his phone in his pocket, keys rattling as he picks them up.
his parents don’t trust him behind the wheel, and honestly, fair. so he shoves on his sneakers, mumbles something vague about going out, and heads for the bus stop at the end of the street. it’s a twenty-minute ride and then another ten walking, but his leg won’t stop bouncing the whole way anyway.
he keeps checking his phone like andre’s magically going to text back jk i’m fine. he doesn’t. and that’s what makes cal walk faster.
“i’m probably overreacting”, he thinks.
he doesn’t believe it for a second.
andre’s house is quiet when he gets there. too quiet. cal knocks, waits, knocks again harder.
“andre”, he calls. “open up, asshole”.
nothing.
after some minutes pass, he’s done waiting. he lets himself in with the spare key andre once gave him “in case of emergency” and probably forgot about.
cal pushes it open, heart kicking up stupidly fast. “hello?”
the house smells like stale air and something faintly sick-sweet. cal wrinkles his nose, heading down the hall.
andre’s door is half open.
he’s curled on his side on the bed, knees drawn up, hair stuck to his forehead in dark, sweaty strands. his face is flushed, lips dry, breathing shallow and uneven. mel, totally unbothered, sleeping next to him.
cal freezes.
andre stirs at the sound. cracks one eye open. “cal?”
“…oh”, he says, softly. “you look like shit”.
“yeah, thanks”, andre huffs weakly.
“hi. jesus, dude”, already crossing the room.
andre tries to sit up. immediately regrets it. he grumbles and flops back down, arm slung over his face.
cal rapidly gets close and presses the back of his hand to andre’s forehead, recoiling. “holy fuck, you’re on fire”.
“mm”, andre murmurs. “feel normal.”
“liar”.
cal isn’t completely useless in situations like this. he’s had practice.
growing up with younger siblings meant fevers at three in the morning, spilled cough syrup, cold compresses, cartoons playing too loud while his mom rushed between shifts.
he knows how to check a temperature. knows the difference between dramatic whining and actual not okay. he’s made soup from a can more times than he’ll ever admit.
he moves on autopilot, like this is obvious, like this is what you do when someone you care about looks like they might actually melt into the mattress.
so now andre needs him, there’s at least a small, steady part of him thinking:
okay. i’ve got this.
except that andre complains the entire time.
he’s half-propped against the headboard with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. his hair is sticking up in the back, cheeks slightly pink, eyes glassy with fever and annoyance.
cal hands him two pills and a glass of water.
andre squints at it like it’s suspicious.
“advil”, cal says.
“i know what advil is”, andre mutters hoarsely, taking the pills anyway.
he swallows them, takes a sip of the water—
then immediately grimaces.
“the water’s too cold”.
cal stares at him.
“it’s water”.
“yeah, but it’s cold”, andre shoves the glass back toward him with a weak, offended little push. “get me normal water”.
“normal water?”
“not fridge water”.
cal exhales hard through his nose and takes the glass back before andre drops it.
“if you weren’t sick, i would’ve told you to fuck off an hour ago”, cal mutters, annoyed.
andre flops back into the pillows dramatically, dragging the blanket up higher.
“i’m dying”, he mumbles.
“you have a fever”.
“exactly”.
now cal comes back with a glass of “normal water” and a damp washcloth, wrung out and folded over his fingers. the room smells faintly like soap now, the sink still running somewhere down the hall.
andre’s half-curled under the blankets, totally miserable.
cal sits on the edge of the bed.
“hold still”, he says, already reaching.
the cloth touches andre’s forehead.
andre immediately makes a face.
“don’t touch my face like that”, he grumbles.
cal huffs a quiet laugh, but it comes out soft, fond and worried all at once.
“you’re such a baby”, he says. “i thought you had, like, a super immune system”.
andre squints up at him through heavy eyelids.
“i do”, he mutters. “doesn’t mean i enjoy suffering”.
cal snorts. “dramatic”.
he shifts the cloth, wiping gently along andre’s temple, pushing damp hair back from his skin. the heat radiating off him is ridiculous.
andre whines and turns his head away, pressing his cheek deeper into the pillow.
a moment passes.
then—
“the light’s too bright”.
cal glances toward the window, then the overhead lamp he turned on earlier.
“…seriously?”
andre just groans again.
cal sighs, long-suffering, and gets up to turn the light off anyway.
but andre doesn’t want him to walk away.
he reaches out blindly and grabs cal’s sleeve. his grip is weak but insistent. “don’t go”.
cal stills. looks down at him.
“i’m not”, he says. quieter. “i’m right here”.
cal switches the lamp off anyway, the room sinking into a softer gray from the light coming through the curtains.
he sits back down on the edge of the bed, andre’s hand is still clutching his sleeve.
cal doesn’t move it.
“you’re clingy when you’re sick”, he says lightly.
andre cracks one eye open just enough to glare at him. “shut up”.
the glare doesn’t last long. his eyelid droops again, lashes sticking together from sweat.
cal watches him for a second.
his fingers hover awkwardly before he reaches out and pushes a wet strand of hair off andre’s forehead.
andre makes a small noise, somewhere between a groan and a sigh.
“you’re burning up”, cal says.
“i’m fine”, andre shifts deeper into the pillow, still holding onto cal’s sleeve like he forgot it was there.
cal settles a little more comfortably against the headboard, careful not to pull away.
after a moment he reaches for the washcloth on the nightstand, dips it in the bowl again, and presses the cool fabric gently back onto andre’s forehead.
andre exhales slowly.
“…better?”
andre hums something that might be a yes.
the room stays quiet after that, except for the soft sound of andre’s breathing and the occasional rustle of blankets when he shifts closer.
cal doesn’t pull his sleeve free.
andre’s been stubborn about it for almost an hour.
“i’m not hungry”.
he says it from under the blanket, voice muffled and hoarse, like that should end the conversation.
cal stands in the doorway of the kitchen holding a plate.
“you haven’t eaten all day”.
“because i feel like shit”.
“ow, poor you”.
andre huffs into the pillow.
at some point cal notices mel’s bowl is almost empty. he tops it off with more food and fills her water dish with fresh water, and mel watches him carefully before deciding he’s done an acceptable job.
cal walks back into the room and sits on the edge of the bed, the plate balanced on his knee. it’s just a piece of toast, cut in half like he’s feeding a toddler.
andre slowly opens one eye.
“are you serious”.
“yes”.
“that’s humiliating”.
“you’re lucky i didn’t cut the crust off”.
andre makes a face. “i hate you”.
“eat the toast”.
“no”.
cal waits.
andre waits.
cal nudges his shoulder with the plate.
“half”, he says. “you don’t even have to finish it. just half”.
“i’m not hungry”.
“your stomach’s gonna be upset if you keep taking advil on nothing.”
andre sighs again but pushes himself up a little, leaning against the headboard. he looks miserable.
cal hands him one half of the toast.
andre holds it like it offended him.
“…this is the driest thing on earth”.
“it’s toast”.
andre takes a tiny bite. chews slowly.
glares at cal the whole time.
cal watches him like a hawk.
andre sighs.
takes another bite.
“stop staring, you creep”.
“if i look away you’ll hide it in the blanket”.
andre rolls his eyes but keeps eating, small annoyed bites until the half is gone.
he drops back against the pillow.
“there. happy?”
cal takes the empty plate back with a little smirk.
“thrilled”.
andre is finishing the other half of the toast when cal stands up again.
“don’t stop”, cal says, already heading toward the bathroom.
“wasn’t planning to”, andre mutters, chewing slowly.
when cal gets up to change the water on the cloth, mel immediately follows him down the hallway. she sits outside the bathroom door while he runs the tap, watching him with slow, suspicious blinks.
the washcloth on his forehead has gone warm and limp. cal wrings a new one under the cold tap, squeezing it tight before walking back.
andre watches him from the bed.
there’s something… weirdly careful about the way cal moves. quiet. deliberate.
like he’s done this before.
cal lifts the old cloth from andre’s forehead and replaces it with the cold one. the chill makes andre suck in a small breath.
“shit—that’s cold”.
“good”, cal says. “means it’s working”.
andre peeks one eye open just enough to glare at him.
“you sound like my mom”.
cal chuckles. “someone has to”.
“don’t start acting like you know what you’re doing”, andre mutters, voice rough. “you’ve been here for like ten minutes”.
cal shrugs, adjusting the washcloth anyway.
“hey”, he says lightly. “i’m a fast learner”.
his fingers brush through andre’s hair for a second while he settles the cloth properly. the touch is light, almost absentminded.
andre’s chewing slows. he squints up at him.
“…why do you know how to do all this?”
cal blinks. “do what?”
“this whole…” andre gestures vaguely with the toast. “playing nurse. acting like someone’s mom”.
cal snorts. “rude”.
andre shrugs, but there’s a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“i’m serious”.
cal sits back on the edge of the bed again, like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
“my siblings got sick a lot”, he says. “and my parents were always working”.
andre pauses mid-bite.
cal says it casually, like it’s not a big deal.
“so you just… learned?”
“someone had to”, cal shrugs.
andre looks back down at the toast, suddenly very interested in it.
because cal reaches out again to adjust the towel when it slides a little, his fingers brushing the side of andre’s temple.
gentle.
way gentler than andre expected from someone who usually shoves him around and curses him out.
andre feels heat crawl up his neck.
which is stupid.
he’s already running a fever.
that’s what it is.
definitely the fever.
he takes another bite of toast just to have something to do with his mouth.
“…you’re hovering”, he mutters.
“you’re sick”.
“i can tell”.
cal huffs a quiet laugh.
andre risks looking up again.
cal’s watching him with this soft, focused expression like he’s making sure he actually finishes the damn toast.
andre’s chest does something weird.
like it tightens and melts at the same time.
which is incredibly annoying.
he takes another bite, cheeks slightly red.
cal just smiles a little and reaches up once more to smooth the hair off his forehead.
andre swears the touch makes him feel warmer than the fever does.
andre keeps his eyes half-closed, letting the room stay obscure and quiet around him. the fever still hums under his skin, dull and heavy, but the cool pressure of the fresh washcloth cal set on his forehead helps.
mel pads into the room at some point, quiet and curious. she jumps onto the bed and steps carefully over the blanket until she reaches him.
andre cracks one eye open and mumbles a tired “hey, mel”, giving her a slow scratch behind the ear before she hops back down.
a moment later she’s already trotting toward the kitchen again, and he hears cal greet her softly in the hallway, asking how he’s doing like she might actually answer.
after that, he hears him moving around the room again—soft steps, the faint clink of a glass on the nightstand, the rustle of the towel as he folds it again. careful. everything he does is careful.
andre pretends not to notice.
he takes a final bite of the toast, chewing slowly. his throat still aches, but cal looked so stubbornly hopeful when he handed it to him that refusing would’ve taken more effort than eating.
he swallows and leans back into the pillow.
cal’s hand brushes his cheek.
andre’s stomach does something stupid.
he keeps his face neutral.
it’s ridiculous, really. he wasn’t neglected growing up. his parents loved him, they were attentive, affectionate even. if he got sick his mom would check on him, bring soup, remind him to take medicine.
normal stuff.
but this—
this is different.
cal doesn’t just check on him. he hovers. he watches andre’s face like he’s reading every tiny change in it. he replaces the towel on his forehead the second it warms. he keeps track of the timing for the medicine. he adjusts the pillows, lowers the lights, brings food in tiny portions like he’s negotiating with a child.
and his hands are so damn gentle about it.
like andre might break.
andre shifts slightly, embarrassed by the warmth creeping up his neck that definitely isn’t the fever.
he hates that he likes it.
not the fever. obviously.
the rest.
being fussed over. having someone sit right there instead of just checking in and leaving. having cal touch him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
it makes something in his chest feel soft in a way he’s not used to.
dangerously soft.
he bites the inside of his cheek and stares at the ceiling.
if cal knew he liked this even a little, he’d never let him hear the end of it.
he’s pretty sure cal will tease him about this later. call him a big baby or something equally annoying once he’s better.
but honestly, he doesn’t care. being pampered by him for a whole day feels way too good to complain about.
so when cal glances back at him and asks softly, “you okay?”
andre just grunts.
“yeah”, he mutters.
but he doesn’t pull away when cal caresses his face with his thumb. instead, he leans into his hand, eyes closing.
before he even notices, the drowsiness creeps in and he slowly drifts off to sleep.
andre wakes up sometime later, slow and heavy, like he’s swimming up through syrup.
the room is dim now. the light’s off, curtains half drawn.
for a second he doesn’t remember why he feels like absolute shit.
then his throat burns when he swallows and his head throbs and—right. sick.
he grumbles under his breath.
the sound makes movement across the room.
cal looks up from the floor where he’s been sitting with his back against the bed, a controller loose in his hands, the paused doom screen glowing on the tv.
“oh, look who’s awake”.
andre squints at him.
“shut up”.
his voice comes out rough and wrecked.
cal immediately pauses the game properly and crawls up onto the mattress again, leaning over him.
“how do you feel?”
andre stares at him like that’s the dumbest question he’s ever heard.
“like i got hit by a truck”.
cal presses the back of his hand to andre’s forehead again.
still warm.
andre grabs his wrist weakly.
“stop doing that”.
“you’re still hot”.
“wow”, andre mutters. “careful now”.
cal rolls his eyes but doesn’t pull his hand away right away.
“do you want more water?”
“no”.
“advil?”
“no”.
“…are you gonna complain again in five minutes?”
andre closes his eyes.
“probably”.
cal sighs, dramatic, but settles back against the headboard anyway.
a minute passes.
then—
“my throat hurts”.
cal doesn’t even look surprised.
“you just said you didn’t want water”.
andre opens one eye.
“…i changed my mind”.
cal huffs, already reaching for the glass.
by the time he settles back beside him, mel has decided to join them. she jumps onto the bed and circles once before settling right on andre’s chest. he barely has the strength to move, but his hand lifts anyway, petting her slowly with the little energy he has left. she purrs, loud and steady, like she’s trying to heal him with the sound.
after a while, andre’s eyes grow heavy again.
seeing that he managed to tolerate the toast earlier, cal quietly slips out of the room while he sleeps. there’s a while of soft noises from the kitchen—pots clinking, the microwave humming—and when andre wakes up again, cal is coming back in with a small bowl of soup.
andre stares at it like it’s the best thing he’s ever seen.
“you made that?” he asks, voice still wrecked.
“don’t sound so surprised”, cal says, setting the bowl on the nightstand.
andre’s stomach answers before he can.
he eats the whole thing—slow at first, then faster once he realizes he can actually keep it down. by the end the bowl’s empty and he’s scraping the spoon against the bottom.
“damn”, he mutters.
cal grins. “what, you want me to feed you too?”
andre immediately flips him off, weak but sincere. “fuck off”.
cal laughs.
a minute passes while andre leans back against the pillow, feeling marginally less like he’s dying. then he glances at cal again.
“did you even eat?”
cal shrugs, brushing it off like it’s nothing. “yeah, yeah. i’m good”.
andre narrows his eyes at him, unconvinced, but cal just waves a hand like the conversation’s already over.
andre watches cal from the corner of his eye.
cal’s sitting on the edge of the bed now, close enough that andre can feel the heat coming off him. one hand is still resting lightly on the blanket near andre’s arm, like he placed it there without thinking.
andre stares at the ceiling again.
he should probably tell him to go.
that’s what a normal person would do. cal already did more than enough—brought water, food, medicine, replaced the cloth on his forehead like five times already. there’s no reason for him to still be here hovering over a grown man with a fever.
and cal could get sick.
andre knows that. he’s not stupid. whatever this is, it’s contagious enough that pam probably told him to keep some distance earlier.
so technically the responsible thing would be to tell him to get out of the room.
but instead he finds himself watching cal again, a little impressed despite everything.
andre didn’t really know this side of him before.
cal even remembered to take care of mel—refilling her bowl without being asked, talking to her like she actually understands, letting her circle around his legs without complaint.
mel usually isn’t very fond of strangers, but she seems perfectly fine with him.
then again, cal is about the furthest thing from a stranger.
he opens his mouth slightly.
nothing comes out.
cal shifts beside him and adjusts the towel again, the movement slow and careful. his fingers brush andre’s cheekbone for a second.
andre’s throat tightens.
damn it.
he should say it now.
“you should probably—”
the words stop halfway.
because cal is already looking at him, eyebrows slightly furrowed in that worried way he gets.
and andre suddenly realizes something uncomfortable.
he doesn’t actually want him to leave.
he wants cal safe, obviously. the last thing he wants is cal catching whatever this is and ending up miserable too. the thought of him shivering and coughing like this makes andre’s chest twist.
but the idea of cal getting up and walking out of the room—
leaving the bed cold and quiet again—
that feels worse than it should.
it’s stupid.
andre presses his lips together and exhales through his nose.
cal mistakes the sound for discomfort and immediately leans closer.
“still bad?” he asks softly.
andre hesitates for a second.
then he mutters, “you’re gonna get sick if you keep sitting there”.
it comes out gruff, almost like a complaint.
cal shrugs a little.
“i’ll risk it”.
andre squints at him. “you’re stupid”.
cal giggles. “i’ll wait until your parents get home. i’m not leaving you here dying alone”.
andre rolls his eyes weakly.
idiot.
and he immediately shifts closer, forehead pressing into cal’s stomach.
“hey”, cal says. “personal space?”
andre frowns, eyes barely open. “cold”.
but he doesn’t argue again.
instead he just shifts a little deeper and lets cal stay there, caught somewhere between wanting him safe—
and selfishly wanting him right where he is.
the day blurs after that.
hours pass in small, quiet pieces—water glasses, another pill, cal swapping out the damp washcloth on andre’s forehead when it turns warm again. the light outside shifts slowly through the window, turning the room a softer shade of afternoon.
andre drifts in and out of it all.
sometimes he’s awake long enough to complain.
“the water’s weird again”, he mutters at one point, pushing the glass weakly back toward cal.
“it’s water”, cal says. “it literally can’t be weird”.
andre squints at him like he’s personally offended. “it tastes like wastewater”.
“that’s the fever”, cal says. “drink it”.
andre groans but does it anyway.
later he complains that the blanket’s too heavy. then that he’s cold. then that the room is too bright even though the curtains are half closed.
cal pretends to be annoyed but fixes everything anyway.
by late afternoon andre is quieter, the fever still humming stubbornly under his skin. cal sits beside him, playing a mini game on his flip phone with one hand while the other rests on andre’s shoulder without thinking.
andre shifts restlessly.
“…cal”, he murmurs, voice hoarse.
“yeah?”
“don’t leave me”.
cal glances at him. “i’m not going anywhere”.
andre makes a small sound that might be relief.
at some point cal lies down beside him without really deciding to. just sort of… ends up there, on his side, facing andre, their foreheads almost touching.
“you sure you wanna be this close?” andre mutters faintly. “gonna catch it”.
“too late”, cal says. “i’ve been here all day”.
andre huffs weakly. “idiot”.
cal shifts a little closer anyway.
andre curls into him like it’s instinct.
cal’s arm wraps around his back, hand warm and steady between his shoulder blades. he can feel the heat of the fever through the thin cotton of andre’s shirt.
andre shifts in and out of sleep after that, feverish and clingy, mumbling half-formed complaints and cal’s name like it’s the same word.
“cal…”
“i’m here”.
“…water”.
“you just had water”.
“…still”.
cal sighs but reaches for the glass on the nightstand anyway.
andre relaxes with a quiet, relieved sound when cal settles back beside him.
he rolls onto his back like he’s trying to give him space, a quiet attempt to keep cal from catching whatever he has. it won’t make a difference anyway—they’re already too close.
they end up half-spooning without really meaning to, cal’s arm wrapped around andre’s waist, his head tucked against his shoulder.
the house stays quiet around them.
andre’s fever hums low and stubborn, but cal stays, breathing slow and even, body curled protectively at his side—like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.
outside, evening starts to dim the light through the window.
inside, the room is warm and still.
eventually andre’s breathing deepens. cal’s eyes grow heavy too.
they fall asleep like that.
the house still quiet. the day finally slowing down.
late that night, the front door clicks open softly.
johanne drops her keys in the bowl by the entrance, already frowning when she notices the house is completely dark. she checks her phone again—still no reply from andre. she’d called and texted him multiple times throughout the day.
are you okay?
did you eat?
answer me, please.
the problem is that if andre’s phone died, the house phone wouldn’t help either. it’s been broken for ages, and they never really took the initiative to fix it. she finds herself regretting that now.
she knows she might seem a little overprotective. at one point she even considered calling a neighbor to check on him, but gerhard convinced her that was too much, that andre probably just wanted his space.
she tried to believe it, but something in her chest still didn’t feel quite right.
she exhales, toeing off her shoes, worry settling in her chest.
the door closes quietly behind her as gerhard steps in too, setting his bag down by the wall.
mel is already waiting on the couch when they walk in, tail flicking as she lets out a soft, complaining meow.
johanne pauses just long enough to give her a quick pet. “hi, mel,” she murmurs, before hurrying down the hall to check on andre.
“he still hasn’t answered?” he asks in a low voice.
johanne shakes her head, already walking towards his room. “not once”.
gerhard glances toward andre’s room. “andre?” he calls softly.
no response.
johanne knocks once before opening the door.
“andre?”
no answer.
the lamp is off. moonlight spills faintly through the curtains.
and there they are.
tangled in the middle of the bed.
andre is half-curled on his side, one hand clutching the fabric of cal’s shirt like he’s afraid he’ll disappear. cal is wrapped around him protectively, arm tight around his waist, face buried near andre’s hair. they’re too close to be accidental. too comfortable to be new.
johanne pauses in the doorway.
andre looks pale even in the dim light, cheeks flushed from fever, but calmer than he’s looked in years. cal’s brow is slightly furrowed in his sleep, like he’s still on guard even unconscious.
she steps a little closer, careful not to wake them.
she notices the glass of water on the nightstand. the thermometer. the folded cloth. the empty soup bowl.
of course.
she softens.
for a second, suspicion flickers—andre not answering, cal here all day—but it fades almost instantly. they’ve always been inseparable. glued at the hip since they were kids.
still.
she’s not blind.
she’s seen the way andre looks at him when he thinks no one’s paying attention. the way his voice changes. the way he pretends not to care and then cares too much.
hopeless. completely hopeless.
cal shifts slightly in his sleep, pulling andre closer instinctively. andre makes a small sound and burrows into him without waking.
johanne presses her lips together, holding back a smile.
it was only a matter of time.
she knows gerhard might not be too happy at first. he’s an old-fashioned man, after all.
but she also knows he loves both of his sons, even if he doesn’t always show it.
and if she’s being honest, andre has always been a little bit his favorite—the one who stayed, who helps him with work, who follows his rules without arguing too much. the one who ended up a lot like him after all.
so, in the end, he trusts andre—trusts that whatever choice he makes will be the right one if it makes him happy.
she reaches out quietly, brushing a gentle hand over andre’s hair, checking his temperature the way she used to when he was little. still warm, but not as bad.
she adjusts the blanket over both of them instead.
“okay”, she whispers to herself.
she slips back into the hallway and closes the door softly behind her.
gerhard looks up from where he’s waiting. “well? how is he?”
johanne gives a small, reassuring smile.
“he’s doing okay”, she says quietly. “just a little sick”.
gerhard nods, relieved.
“let the boy rest”, she adds gently, already turning off the hallway light. “don’t bother him”.
for the first time all day, she’s not worried.
she knows her son is in good hands, with someone who cares for him just as deeply as she does.