"Get in the bed, and I get you a coke. I'll get you two. I'll get you a goddamned six-pack, I'm such a nice guy. Just get in the bed."
Lance tried to snort, but it came out sounding gelatinous. Thankfully, Chris was immune to the sounds of most bodily functions. Even those associated with the plague, which was undoubtedly what Lance had managed to catch. The kid was an overachiever. Chris recognized the type, and took pains to avoid them.
"No. I need the coke first." Lance coughed, then doubled over on the couch as it turned into full-bodied attempt to eject his own lungs.
Sighing, Chris sat on the edge of the couch, as far away as he could get from Lance and still be able to rub his back. "It's a simple exchange I'm proposing here. You get in the bed, I bring you caffeinated syrup."
Lance spat something into a tissue that Chris didn't want to examine too closely. Nothing produced by the human body was supposed to be that shade of yellow. "If this is how you get girls to sleep with you, then no wonder you were the only one without a date tonight."
"Okay, first? Joey doesn't have a date, he's got a booty call. Second, JC doesn't have a date, he's got a booth at a coffeehouse listening to unwashed Europeans read shitty poetry. Third, Justin doesn't have a date with anyone except Mark Twain."
"Tom Sawyer?"
"Huck Finn," Chris said. "Bus school stresses the classics. Mostly because Penguin paperbacks are cheap and easily replaced."
Lance wrestled himself to a standing position with minimal grunting, though Chris kept a hand at the ready in case he started to topple over. "Always thought Huck was hotter than Tom, anyhow."
"I really don't need to hear any more details on that subject, thanks." Chris pulled down the sheets, dislodging a discman and half a bag of knock-off German Doritos in the process. The fact that Lance didn't seem to notice the mess suggested to Chris he was most likely running a significant fever.
Sighing, Lance collapsed into bed, immediately curling into a ball. It was kind of cute, if you liked them weak and pitiful. And full of mucus. "Where's my soda?"
"In the machine down the hall. Mind if I raid your jeans for change?" Lance made as if to take a swing in Chris' direction, but was interrupted by another coughing fit. Chris shook his head. "Hang on, don't die while I'm gone. Here. Kleenex."
Between his jeans and Lance's, and a quick stop by the American Literature Room to ask Lynn if she would donate to a worthwhile cause, Chris scrounged enough money for two Cokes, one Sprite, and one root beer, which Lance hated, but Chris had been fond of since he was six and his mom had lied to him and told him it was almost just like real beer. He'd never quite gotten over believing her.
Lance was on his back in the middle of the bed, clutching a pillow when Chris returned. "I keep my promises. Up, Bass."
"First you want me in the bed, then you want me to sit. Make up your goddamned mind," Lance said, but he leaned against the pillows Chris piled next to the headboard. Chris watched him take a couple of swallows and then, convinced Lance wasn't going to puke, gingerly sat near Lance's feet.
There was nothing but the fizz of the sodas and the occasional sound of Lance working his way through the kleenex for a few minutes. How Lance managed to look mostly human despite weeks of no sleep and the head cold from hell was beyond Chris. It was a gift, maybe, a freakish physical talent like the way JC could bend his elbows backwards like a demented flamingo.
"You're cuter than a flamingo," Chris said before he could stop himself. No big deal; everything was cool. He'd give Lance another dose of cough syrup and the kid wouldn't remember a thing. "Anyone ever tell you that?"
"Not while in bed with me, no." Lance tossed back the dregs of the can. It would've been sexy, almost, if he wasn't sick and snotty and, like, practically a toddler. If toddlers had low voices made huskier by a nagging cough. "But then, I've never really been in bed with you."
"That's the fever talking, Huck." It had to be the fever. Maybe Chris was coming down with it, too. All the germs in this bed, it was no fucking wonder.
"Maybe it's the fever. Maybe it's the medicine." Lance put the empty can on the nightstand, then slid down between the covers. His eyes got sleepy and half-lidded. "Maybe I'm too beat to do anything but sleep. You should check on me in the morning, though."
"Um," Chris said, then watched Lance fall asleep in front of him.
to the sequel