Chapter 18 Andrew
Given the choice between wet socks and death, Andrew would choose, well—neither.
But right now, he might as well have wet socks on for how disgusting he feels.
Everything is wrong—his awareness of his own heartbeat, his breathing, every place his skin wraps around his bones.
It’s all too much. He is so deregulated, he wants to cry.
Except he already did cry, right after Nicki had to leave for his morning skate.
Not wanting Nicki to see him, he made sure and held it in, biting the inside of his cheek and insisting he was fine when Nicki asked.
What was Andrew supposed to do—admit he was so miserable he didn’t want Nicki to leave him?
Was he supposed to say that he wanted his professional hockey player boyfriend to skip his game and stay home to hold him?
Absolutely not ever, but especially not knowing today is Nicki’s last game of the season, and he can’t miss it just because Andrew is being pathetic.
Usually, he’s better at keeping it together, but something about their shower last night undid Andrew.
There were glimpses before, signs that Nicki really was okay with him at his worst—first at the rage room and then again at his apartment.
Yet neither of those things could have prepared Andrew for Nicki to comfort him when sick, to tenderly wash his hair and be okay jerking off while Andrew did nothing more than revel in his closeness.
He’d never had the freedom to do that before, always so afraid of someone else being confused or upset by Andrew’s untraditional and sometimes changing boundaries with sex, that he often just closed it off behind a wall.
Being allowed to enjoy Nicki’s pleasure, not for himself but for him, and then being held after, is the kind of thing Andrew never dreamed someone might offer him.
After Nicki came, he’d rinsed them both, insisting on towel drying Andrew despite the fact that he could technically do it himself.
Then he’d dressed Andrew in his own clothing and taken him to his bed before wrapping himself around Andrew.
Even after Andrew reminded Nicki he was a disgusting, germ-filled cesspool, Nicki held him all night.
Even when Andrew got snot on his pillow and woke him up coughing in his face.
After all that, Andrew simply can’t be blamed for letting the last of his walls crumble.
Somehow Nicholas Whitmore, the man Andrew initially thought was the world’s most self-centered asshole, turned out to be one of the most steady, reliable people Andrew’s ever met.
He isn’t put off by Andrew raging or yelling or crying or even being sick, which is unsettling and confusing, but also one of the most incredibly safe things he’s ever experienced.
He’s so used to people only liking him at his best, that having someone revel in his messy, difficult side has Andrew feeling almost as deregulated as being sick.
To make things even harder, in less than twenty-four hours he’s gone from probably getting sick to feeling like full blown death, and he can’t pretend to be okay anymore. He doesn’t want to pretend. Andrew is so goddamn tired of hiding and masking.
Right now he’s miserable and sweaty, hot but cold, and everything aches, and the bed still smells like Nicki, and all he wants is his boyfriend to come home and take care of him, to hold him in their bed.
Their bed.
Rolling over to lay his cheek on Nicki’s pillow, Andrew tries and fails to ignore the feelings that single thought invokes.
It’s not their bed. It’s Nicki’s. But maybe…
maybe it could be. He’s been so sure keeping Nicki at arms length is important, but would it really be so bad to just let him in?
To let down that last wall and accept what Nicki is so clearly trying to give?
Andrew doesn’t think so. In fact, the idea of finally letting someone in to see every shadowed, tired part of Andrew feels like being allowed to breathe after a lifetime of holding his breath.
The thought brings a fresh wave of tears to his eyes, the drops staining Nicki’s pillowcase and making his already stuffy nose start to run. Fuck, Andrew hates being sick. It makes him feel vulnerable and needy and weak.
Before leaving, Nicki made sure to open all the curtains so Andrew had a view of the sea from bed, which was surprisingly observant and thoughtful since Andrew didn’t ask.
He’s glad for it now, focusing on the endless blue horizon rather than the way his own interoception is dialed up to one hundred.
After what feels like an hour, but is probably closer to ten minutes, Andrew’s gone from bad to worse, the nausea that’s been at the periphery of his senses taking center stage.
Maybe it’s because he’s sick, or maybe it’s because he’s been popping pain pills on an empty stomach, but suddenly Andrew’s stomach rolls, and he knows it’s going to be bad.
Throwing himself out of bed, because the idea of puking on Nicki’s expensive sheets would fill him with guilt, he drags himself to the bathroom where the contents of his stomach make an unwanted and painful appearance.
He retches, his entire body convulsing with the force until there’s nothing left, and he’s puking up clear stomach acid and gagging.
It takes awhile for the convulsions to stop, but when they do, his entire body shakes, and he can barely stand upright.
The bedroom is suddenly too far, and Andrew gives up trying to get back, sinking to the floor and laying his cheek against the cold tile.
All he wants is to crawl back in bed and hug Nicki’s pillow and pretend it’s him, but he’s not sure if he might puke again, and he’s too scared to do it in Nicki’s bedroom, so he stays on the floor tracing the square of tile next him and counting from one to ten and back in Spanish, hoping the distraction will ease the nausea.
The longer he counts, the more the world blurs, exhaustion warring with unease until his eyes flutter shut.
This is fine, Andrew can just live on the floor now.
* * *
“What the fuck?”
Nicki’s cursing startles Andrew awake, something he deeply regrets when he tries to move and realizes he is asleep on the bathroom floor. The very hard bathroom floor. His body is absolutely unhappy about that, based on the intense pain in his neck and hip.
“Sorry.”
“What the fuck, Andrew?” Nicki sounds angry, which makes Andrew’s entire body tense. He forces his eyes open, trying to see if he made a mess and didn’t notice, but then he catches sight of Nicki’s face, and while his voice sounds pissed, his expression is anything but.
“Why the fuck are you sleeping on the floor?”
“Puked,” Andrew answers, too exhausted to explain in the kind of detail he normally would.
“Fuck,” Nicki curses, “I shouldn’t have gone to morning skate.”
“I’m fine,” Andrew insists, an obvious lie as evidenced by being too weak to move off the damn floor.
Everything hurts, partially from being sick, partially from using muscles he didn’t know he had to puke his guts out, and partly because he’s not a teenager anymore, and the floor is absolutely not an ergonomic place to sleep.
“Fucking fine,” Nicki gripes, squatting down. He’s dressed casually in a pair of jeans and a low cut t-shirt that shows off his impressive chest. Andrew would like to live on that chest. “How long have you been here?”
“Dunno,” Andrew answers, too out of it to think.
He tries to close his eyes, but Nicki clicks his tongue, reaching for Andrew, almost as if he means to pick him up.
“I’m too heavy,” Andrew tells him.
“I can bench press almost three hundred pounds, princess. I guarantee your ass isn’t too heavy, and if it was, I’d just fucking lift more.”
The idea that Nicki would simply adjust his body to make it do what he needed to in order to pick up Andrew makes him want to cry.
Oh, he is crying, tears leaking out without his permission. When did that happen?
Fuck being sick.
Fuck having feelings.
Fuck being vulnerable.
“That’s it, I’m calling out of the game tonight,” Nicki announces, easily lifting Andrew off the floor in a bridal carry.
“You can’t,” Andrew protests, feeling a bit like a rag doll.
He should hate it, but instead it’s nice.
He doesn’t even try to stiffen his body to make it easier to be held, doesn’t hold onto Nicki’s neck, just goes limp because he is useless and sick, and he doesn’t want to do anything.
He doesn’t even want a corporeal form right now, so he absolutely refuses to participate in maintaining its current existence when it’s betraying him by being sick.
“You slept on the fucking floor, Andrew.”
“Don’t call me Andrew,” he demands, aware he’s whining but too miserable to care or censor himself.
“No?”
“No,” Andrew affirms, breathing in the familiar scent of Nicki’s cologne that clings to his clean skin. He must’ve used his normal body care after showering at the rink, and Andrew is so glad. He smells so good.
“Just princess?”
“Mhmm,” Andrew confirms.
Andrew has responsibilities. Andrew is controlled. Andrew has to mask. He doesn’t want any of that, and he doesn’t care if it’s pathetic or selfish or wrong. He doesn’t want to be anything but Nicki’s princess right now.
When Nicki attempts to lower Andrew, he clings to him, letting out a pitiful moan of displeasure. He does not want to be put down. He wants Nicki to keep holding him. Maybe forever.
Once he’s better, he’s going to have to return to the real world, have adult responsibilities and a job and pretend he doesn’t long for nothing more than to be held and cared for and have someone else be in charge for fucking once.
Andrew is so fucking tired.
“Don’t worry.” Nicki kisses his forehead, cursing to himself about Andrew’s fever before continuing. “I’m just gonna get rid of these clothes, and then I’ll get in bed with you.”