13. Jorge
Jorge
Breathless
T his is so corny.
So fucking cheesy.
Am I going to post it? Bet your ass I am.
I click the button, chewing my lip as the video is posted to my YouTube channel. My band thought I was crazy for starting it two years ago, but it’s doing well. I get a decent income from the videos I make. Most of them are of me covering various songs or tutorials for screaming. Devon helps me edit them despite grumbling about it, but he’s the best at this crap. That’s why he produces all our music. He’s a genius, I swear.
“Breathless, huh?” he teases over my shoulder while we both watch the video load.
“It’s a good song.” I feel my cheeks heat even as I say it.
Because the truth behind the song choice would give too much away. I’ve always liked 80s metal. Quiet Riot is old school as fuck, and I think the younger audience will appreciate a fresh take on a classic. I spin the office chair around to look at Devon. He’s sporting a busted lip from getting into it with Michael the other night. A nice scab covers the split in the upper one, while the bottom is still a bit swollen.
“You ever gonna cough up what that fight was about?” I ask him.
His hazel eyes flick to me, his green mohawk that's faded and limp. “He was drunk and being a dick. I set him straight.”
“Seems like whenever he’s around Morgan, he’s testy.”
Devon nods in agreement. “I don’t even know why he showed up. Yeah, they’re twins, but Morgan hasn’t been friends with you guys since high school.”
It’s true. Before Devon and Kelly joined the band, Michael’s brother was around a lot. He’d come to band practices and my family's parties. He tried to help Oli at one point because they both played football. Obviously, Morgan was Varsity, and Oli was not. But once we all left for college, Morgan kind of vanished. Then Kelly and Devon joined our band, and we only saw him occasionally.
Morgan has always been a little weird, though.
“Well, it was his birthday, too,” I point out.
Devon curls his lip. “Doesn’t mean he had to come. He fucks up Michael’s whole mood, and then I have to deal with it.”
“I get it.”
Devon and Michael have always been pretty close. I think Devon feels responsible for him ever since our freshman year of college when Michael showed up one day with a black eye. Michael and Morgan’s dad is a piece of shit.I want to say that they're BFFs like Phoenix and me, but those two can go days without speaking.
“Won’t be the last time I put him on his ass,” he grumbles, then nods at the PC. “It uploaded.”
I squeak in delight, spinning to look. “It’s already got four views! Fuck yeah!”
“Now that you got your love song uploaded, do you think you can record the tracks correctly this time?” he asks dryly.
I twist my head over my shoulder and scowl. “That’s rude. I did it right.”
“It’s off. And Phoenix agrees.”
“Bitch.”
He raises his hands while shrugging. “He’s got an ear for it. Besides, Lex has been breathing down my neck. He’s bound to text you sooner or later.”
I huff, roll my eyes, and sag like a wet noodle in the chair. “Fine.”
“Up you go. We’ll start with Strange Lad.”
M y throat hurts. My throat never hurts. It’s my fucking superpower, but after I left the studio, it felt like I swallowed acid. Devon was a monster, making me redo parts over and over again like some demented drill sergeant. And now, I have a sore throat. I hope I’m not getting sick. Just as I pull up to my house, I cough. It’s a dry cough, but it has my hackles rising.
“No,” I whine, hearing the crack in my voice. “Mannn.”
I get out of my car, drag my feet up my walkway, and unlock my front door. When I get inside, another cough explodes out of my mouth. Yup. I’m sick. I’m deathly ill. I’ve got the illness. My mood tanks as I hurry to my bathroom in search of the ancient cough drops I have in there. I grab one, hating everything currently, and pop it in my mouth. Deciding to boil the germs out of me, I flip on the shower.
My abuela would always steam me and then lather me in Vicks. So, that’s what I’m going to do. I swear it’s been like five years since I’ve been sick. Where the fuck did it come from? Who did this to me? I glare at my shower curtain, which says Live Nudes in bright neon font, and it dawns on me. My cousins. The girls. Those germ-ridden stupid teenagers breathed their funk all over me, and now I’m going to die.
I am not the sort of person who handles this shit well. I’m a big, fat baby. I might cry. Hopping in the shower, I shut the curtain and suck the cough drop. Do I even own any medicine? I’m sure this thing is expired as all hell, too.
Whimpering, I shower and stay there as long as possible to soak up the hot steam. When I’m out, my nose is dripping, and I feel shaky. I know I’m being overly dramatic, and this is most likely a normal cold, but regardless. The last time I was sick, I made Phoenix stay with me and take care of me. He was happy to do so even though he eventually caught it. Then I took care of him. It was gross for about two weeks. Snot, fevers, and funk.
Phoenix won’t be coming to take care of me now.
Feeling alone and sorry for myself, I go to my bedroom and find the warmest clothes I own. I get dressed, burrow into a thick hoodie, and hobble to my couch.
Should I text Oli? See what he’s up to? Last night was a lot for him. It was a lot for me, too. I honestly thought we’d make out or something, but I could tell he was freaking out. Pumping the brakes had been hard. I want to see where this goes with him so much, but I won’t rush it even though I really want to. I want to do naughty things to him.
Now, though, I’m disgusting. And the last thing I want to do is get him sick.
I’ve been busy with my band stuff today, which explains why he hasn’t reached out. He’s also had his therapy appointment earlier. Depending on how intense they get, Oli can sometimes be closed off after them. I sniffle loudly, feeling thick snot roll down my throat and gag on it. Gross. Horrible.
Deciding to suck it up, I put in an order for all the drugs I might need and have them delivered. I’ll just be miserable for the next hour or so until it gets here. It’s not like I’m unable to drive, but I’m stubborn and would rather wallow in my illness on my couch. I stare longingly at my kitchen, knowing I have tea in there that would help a lot. Just as I’m lifting to go make some, my phone buzzes.
I glance down and see texts from Phoenix.
It worked.
I brought the guitar.
I wince, hating that I gave him that advice the last time I saw him.
Look, I loathe that I’m lying to him. I love Phoenix like he’s my flesh and blood. He’s been my best friend for most of my life, alright? I couldn’t just…not help. So I told him to find something that would matter to both of them. Something sweet that’d bring back memories of the good ‘ol days. Oli is nostalgic like that. Hence his obsession with Magic: The Gathering. He’d play it with Phoenix often as a tween.
Yeah?
What happened? When did you do it?
Last night. I stopped by his house.
He didn’t seem too happy to see me. In fact, he was smiling all dopey and then realized I was at his door.
My stomach twists, nausea crawling up to slap my tonsils. Oli thought I was the one at his door. Which means Nyx finally coughed up his address. Fuck.
But I saw it in his eyes when I left. He remembered painting it with me.
Good. Maybe this will be a foot in the door.
I hope so. What are you doing?
Dying on my couch.
OMG. Are you sick?
Yup. Blame my cousins. I might give up singing and become a mute hermit forever.
*rolls eyes*
Do you need anything?
Want Eli and I to come over?
I do.
I want to see both of them.
Since we’ve been back from the tour, it’s been touch and go. I’ve seen Phoenix a whole three times outside of the recording studio. He’s been too busy being in love. Too busy forgetting about me. Deep sadness swirls in my chest, so I rub at it. I want him to come over. But my phone buzzes again, and it’s from Oli.
Can I come by?
I’m sick.
Sick?
Yup. Got the illness.
I’ll make you some soup. Be there soon.
Okay. See you soon.
I quickly text back to Phoenix that I’m okay and that I’ll see him in a few days when I’m feeling better. And after, I tack on that I’m probably highly contagious, and I want to sleep it off so he doesn’t try to come over anyway. It feels like I need to move. Just find some old cabin in the woods to hide my secrets in. Because as much as I love and miss Phoenix, I want Oli with me more. He’ll make me feel better just by taking up space in here.
I just will make sure we don’t get close. So he doesn’t catch this grossness. That’s exactly what I’ll do.
W aking with a loud, gurgly cough, I blink through my three-minute nap as Oli knocks on the door. He has a key but never uses it—something about boundaries or whatever. My lungs burn as I cough again, tugging my blanket with me as I hobble to the door. When I open it, he takes one look at me, arms full of soup ingredients, and drops the bags. He steps over them and hugs me. I wheeze loudly, shocked and dying.
“You look terrible, kitten,” he mumbles, giving me a long squeeze.
I’m having a fever dream. My dick tingles at the pet name, but my heart races because he’s… holding me. “Shit, you got a fever too.” He pulls back, slaps his palm against my sticky forehead, and frowns deeply. “Just hit you all at once?”
Does he not realize what he just did? What he’s still doing? “Yeah,” I croak. I sound like a dying frog.
“Did you take anything?” His hand slides down to rub my cheek, and then it dawns on him. His eyes round, and he drops to squat and grab his things. Clearing his throat, blushing, he stands again. “Sorry.”
“It’s…fine.” I eyeball him and cough into my elbow.
“Go lay down.”
I feel terrible, but underneath the misery is a big puddle of hot goo. I knew he loved me. A weak smile forms on my face as I return to the couch, which I have dubbed my station of death, and curl into a ball on the pull-out.
“Did you take medicine?” he calls from the kitchen, unloading his bags.
“No. It's being delivered.” I try to project my voice, but it cracks, making me sound like I’m eleven.
“You ordered cold medicine?”
“Yes,” I grumble and burrow deeper into my blanket. Another gross cough slips free.
I never did make it to the kitchen for my tea.
With a shaky hand, I grab my phone off the cushion beside me and check the order details. It says the meds will be here in fifteen minutes. I click the power button and chuck the phone. The one person I want with me is in my kitchen, pulling out the stock pot my mom gave me when I first left home. It’s older than I am.
I doze on the pull-out until there’s a knock at my door. Oli goes and gets my delivery, then brings me a piping cup of tea, a glass of water, and my drugs. Wiggling over to the edge of the couch, I flip my legs over the side and shiver. God, I feel like death and decay. This might just be how I die, I’m sure of it. He watches me take my medicine, drink water, and then gingerly cup my mug.
“The soup is going to take a while,” he says, standing awkwardly. It’s almost as if he’s regretting hugging me. Or maybe he just now realized that he could get sick. “Do you want toast? Some crackers?”
“I have crackers?” I ask. Since fucking when?
“I bought some.”
“You need to be more careful with your money.” I blow on my hot tea, watching him. “I could have bought it.”
Oli makes minimum wage at his job, and the cash his mom sends him barely covers his rent. I’m not rich but better off financially, so I try hard not to let him buy things. He needs to save if he ever wants to get out of his situation. I can tell by his face that he doesn’t like being called out like this.
“I’m not so broke that I can’t afford crackers, Jorge,” he says with a little growl and folds his arms. “It’s fine.”
Taking a sip, I groan when the thick liquid coats my raw throat. Deciding not to continue grilling him over money, I nod. I’m not trying to be an asshole, but Oli has blown through his cash fast. “Sorry.”
“It’s alright,” he sighs. Coming over to the sofa, he perches beside me, leaving ample space between us. “About earlier,” he starts, rubbing his palms on his jeans. “I didn’t mean to do that.”
I almost roll my eyes. I’m cranky, and I don’t have a filter when I'm cranky. “You can touch me whenever you want. You don’t need permission, Oli,” I snip and drink more tea.
That should’ve been romantic, but it came out wrong.
“Are you mad?”
I glance at him. Shit. Definitely not romantic, Jorge. “No. I feel like shit. I’m not mad at you.”
“You sure?”
I think about it.
I guess I am a little mad. Mad at the germs infesting my body, mad that he got bold while I’m vulnerable, mad that I’m offering myself up on a silver platter, but he won’t do the same for me. It’s stupid to be mad over that. I’ve been nothing but patient this whole time with zero issues. And because I truly care about him, I have to be fine with our situation. Honestly, though, I want to be held. I want to be coddled and babied because I’m miserable.
I set down the tea and scoot closer to him, and his breath hitches.
“Sorry in advance if you get sick.” And then I lean my head on his shoulder.
Just that single touch has the shitty feeling in my chest easing. I cough into my blanket, wincing through the burn in my lungs and throat. Oli sighs again and hooks his arm around my shoulders. I know I shouldn’t and should keep the boundaries, but I want to be selfish. I want to take without asking. How bad would it be if I simply curled into his side, held his waist, and took a nap on his big, meaty chest?
“Go on,” he whispers. “I know you want to.”
“Are you for real right now?” I say, peeking up at him through my lashes.
“I can handle it.”
I grab him, smushing my face into his right pec, and band my arms around his torso. The blanket stays pinned over my shoulders due to his arm. I would purr if it didn’t hurt my throat so bad. Stuffing my nose in his shirt, I try to get a whiff of his scent, but my nose is too stuffy. I try anyway, which makes him chuckle a little. He scoots us back so he can recline. I feel his head rest on top of mine, and all is right in the world.
We’re cuddling.
Oli is cuddling me.
“Thank you,” I tell him and kiss his chest.
He stiffens for a few seconds before relaxing again. “You’re welcome.”
“Love you,” I mumble and knock the fuck out.