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The September air is crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and the heavy, metallic tang of the nearby docks where Eep works, but inside the Crood-Taylor household, the atmosphere is thick with the smell of woodsmoke and old canvases.
The first thing Freddie does when Roger’s Uncle Thunk opens the door is sneeze—violently—right into the man’s massive, barrel-shaped chest. It isn't a delicate sneeze. It is a full-body convulsion that sends Freddie’s head snapping forward, his meticulously styled hair falling into his eyes. Thunk, who stands a head and a shoulder above most doorways, doesn't move so much as an inch back. He is built like a redwood tree, solid and unyielding, though his expression is one of pure, wide-eyed bewilderment.
"Oh!" Thunk blinks, the sound vibrating in his chest like a low-frequency hum. He looks down at the damp spot spreading on the front of his faded World of Warcraft: Burning Crusade T-shirt, which is stretched perilously thin across his shoulders. His latest rescue dog, a scruffy, one-eared terrier named Sir Barksalot, trots over from the hallway. The dog sniffs the air with sudden, professional interest, its tail wagging in a frantic blur against Thunk’s sturdy calves. "Bless you? Or... are we doing a new kind of hello?"
Freddie tries to pull himself together. He is wearing a stunning, high-collared silk dress that clinches at his waist, layered over a pair of jeans so faded they’re nearly white at the knees. It’s an outfit that screams Rock Star, but his face is currently the color of spoiled cream. His favorite lipstick—a bold, defiant crimson—is slightly smudged at the corners of his mouth, making him look like a tragic clown. The second thing Freddie does is wrinkle his nose at the very idea of being "blessed." He hates being perceived as fragile, and he hates the indignity of a sneeze even more. He opens his mouth to deliver a sharp, witty retort about Thunk’s choice of vintage gaming apparel, but the words die in a wet, gurgling sound.
Promptly, and with terrifying efficiency, Freddie vomits.
Sandy, leaning against the doorframe with her arms crossed over her scarred forearms, doesn’t flinch. As an MMA coach, she’s seen every bodily fluid known to man, usually delivered with more velocity than this. Her hair is cropped short, practical and sharp, and her eyes—dark and piercing—track the trajectory of Freddie’s stumble backward. She notes the way his knees buckle, the way his center of gravity shifts, and the exact second his strength gives out.
He doesn't hit the porch floor. Roger is there, a blond blur of frantic motion. Roger, who usually treats a communal bowl of peanuts like a biological weapon and who carries hand sanitizer in every pocket of his leather jacket, doesn't even look at the mess on the floor or the ruin of Freddie’s silk dress. His hands clamp around Freddie’s trembling arms, his fingers digging into the expensive fabric and the fever-hot skin beneath. He pulls Freddie into his chest, anchoring him. Roger’s jaw is set so tight it looks like it might snap, his blue eyes wide with a mixture of terror and fierce, protective rage. He’s the only thing tethering Freddie to the earth, and they both know it.
Freddie’s head falls heavily onto Roger’s shoulder. He shivers so violently that his teeth audibly chatter against the leather of Roger's jacket.
"Temperature’s spiking," Sandy observes. Her voice is flat, devoid of the frantic energy vibrating off Roger, but her hand reaches out to steady Roger’s back, a silent anchor for the anchor. She’s already reading the room, checking the pulse in Freddie’s neck from three feet away just by watching the rhythm of his carotid artery.
Thunk gasps, his massive hands coming up to cover his mouth in a gesture of pure, childlike horror. "Oh no! Is this like that time I ate the bad clams at the pier? Remember? I saw colors for three days, and I thought the cat was a messenger from the Great Beyond!"
"It's not clams, Thunk," a new voice drifts from the living room. Guy walks into the entryway, a paintbrush tucked behind his ear and his silvering hair tied back in a messy knot. He looks like a man who has spent the last forty years learning how to breathe through a storm. He takes in the scene—the vomit, the shivering rock star, the panicked son—with a calm, contemplative air. He reaches out, placing a calloused, paint-stained hand on Thunk’s arm to settle him. "It’s a collapse," Guy says softly, his eyes meeting Roger's. "The body finally caught up to the brain."
Roger ignores them all. He’s focused entirely on the heat radiating off Freddie, a dry, baking warmth that feels like a desert wind. He presses his lips to Freddie’s sweaty temple, ignoring the salt and the grime. "You absolute idiot," Roger murmurs, his voice cracking, losing that carefully cultivated cool he tries so hard to maintain. "You did this. You literally worried yourself sick because you thought they wouldn't like you."
The "they" in question is the formidable Eep, who is currently heard stomping up the back porch steps, her heavy work boots sounding like a march of doom. She bursts through the kitchen door and into the hallway, her copper-and-silver hair escaping its messy braid in wild, electrified tendrils. She’s wearing her neon safety vest over a flannel shirt, her broad shoulders taking up the entire width of the hall. She’s an inspector, a woman who demands structural integrity in both buildings and people.
"Who’s dying?" Eep bellows, her voice a joyous, terrifying thunder. She stops short when she sees the huddle in the entryway. Her eyes soften instantly, going from 'Alpha Predator' to 'Nurturing Matriarch' in a heartbeat. She looks at Freddie—pale, shaking, and covered in his own illness—and then at her son, who looks like he’s holding his entire world in his arms.
"Oh, honey," Eep says, her voice dropping to a low, gravelly rumble. She walks over, her heavy, calloused hand reaching out to cup Freddie’s cheek. She doesn't care about the mess. She’s the woman who used to wrestle bears for sport; a little flu is nothing. "You’re burning up. Roger, get him to the sofa. Thunk, stop vibrating, and go get the heavy blankets. The ones from the cedar chest. Sandy, ice packs. Guy, get the ginger tea going."
The family moves with the synchronized precision of a pack. Thunk trips over his own feet, nearly crushing Sir Barksalot, but manages to recover with a nimble roll that betrays his surprisingly athletic lineage before disappearing toward the linen closet. Sandy is already at the freezer. Guy is at the stove. Roger maneuvers Freddie toward the oversized, sunken living room sofa. Freddie is half-delirious now, his eyes fluttering as he tries to focus on the flickering fire in the hearth. The heat of the room hits him, and he moans, a low, pathetic sound that makes Roger’s heart ache.
As Roger lowers him onto the cushions, Freddie’s hand—weak and trembling—reaches up. He catches the lapel of Roger’s jacket, tugging him closer. His fingers are stained with a bit of charcoal from a sketch he’d been working on earlier, back when he was still pretending to be fine.
"Rog," Freddie whispers, his voice a raspy shadow of its usual operatic power.
"I'm here, Fred. Just shut up and breathe." Roger is tucking a pillow under Freddie's head, his movements frantic and jerky.
Freddie manages a weak, flickering grin. It’s a "little shit" grin, the kind he uses when he’s just said something scandalous to a reporter or spent too much money on a ridiculous hat. Even with a fever of 103, he can't help himself. "Told you... I'd make... an impression," Freddie wheezes. He looks past Roger to where Eep is standing, her arms folded over her chest, watching them with a fierce, watery pride. "Did I... pass inspection, Ma?"
Eep lets out a sound that is half-laugh, half-sob. She steps forward and swats Roger’s hand away so she can tuck the heavy wool blanket around Freddie’s chin herself.
"Kid," Eep says, leaning down so her face is inches from his. Her copper hair tickles his forehead. "You puked on my floor, sneezed on my brother, and ruined a silk dress. You’re practically a Crood already. Now shut your trap before I have Sandy put you in a headlock to make you sleep."
Freddie laughs—or he tries; he lets out a jagged, rattling rasp of amusement that turns into a coughing fit. "See?" Freddie gasps out once he catches his breath, looking up at Roger with heavy, hooded eyes. "She loves me. I'm a natural."
Roger looks at his mother, then back at the man who is currently sweating through his favorite jeans. He feels a ridiculous, overwhelming surge of love that makes his throat feel like it's full of sand. He reaches out, taking Freddie’s hand and squeezing it tight.
"You're a nightmare," Roger says, though he’s already brushing the damp hair off Freddie’s forehead with a tenderness that borders on the sacred.
"Yes," Freddie sighs, his eyes finally closing as the exhaustion and the fever-reducers Eep is forcing down his throat begin to take hold. "But I’m your very own personal nightmare."
Thunk reappears, draped in four different blankets, accidentally knocking over a vase of dried flowers in his haste. Sandy catches the vase before it hits the floor, not even looking up from the ice pack she’s wrapping in a towel. Guy approaches with a steaming mug, the scent of ginger and honey cutting through the heavy air.
As the storm of the afternoon settles into the quiet hum of a family taking care of its own, Roger sits on the edge of the sofa. He doesn't move. He watches the rise and fall of Freddie’s chest, the way the firelight catches the gold in Freddie’s rings. Outside, the September wind howls, but inside, the "Alpha" of the family is humming a low, wordless tune, and the "Brain" is telling a story about a boy who followed the light until he found a home. And Freddie, the little shit, finally sleeps, knowing he doesn't have to survive alone anymore.