Chapter 18 Andrew #2
Too exhausted to argue about how Nicholas is going to get sick or must have better things to do, he closes his eyes and lays there listening to the sound of Nicki’s jeans being undone before falling to the floor. There’s a soft thud that follows and he hopes it’s Nicki’s shirt.
Seconds later, the bed dips, and then Nicki’s solid frame surrounds him from behind. Though he’s clothed, he likes knowing Nicki barely is, letting his hands rest on Nicki’s forearm where it wraps around his middle.
“That’s it, princess. Just relax.”
A simple command, and one he so rarely is able to abide by.
Relaxing doesn’t come easy for Andrew, but with Nicki spooning him, it’s easier than it usually is.
Not easy because contrary to what his family thinks, nothing—not even existing—comes easy to Andrew, but easier.
Being around Nicki doesn’t change his brain, but it makes it easier to live in, a kind of comfort Andrew didn’t ever dare dream of.
All the noise in his brain, the thoughts and worries and compulsions that rarely stop, quiet. Not just because of Nicki, though his presence helps, but because Andrew is so tired, everything grows fuzzy, and the world fades away.
* * *
“I told you, I’m not fucking playing tonight.”
The pitch of Nicki’s voice rouses Andrew, or maybe it’s the throbbing in his head and the razor blade feeling in his throat when he swallows, possibly from his nose being so dry, he’s been mouth breathing during his nap.
Whatever the cause, Andrew feels worse than when he passed out in Nicki’s arms, and despite his curiosity about who Nicki is on the phone with, he has no energy to alert Nicki to the fact that he’s awake and listening to him even if he should.
“He passed out in the fucking bathroom, Tony.” That answers that question then.
Squinting at the clock on the nightstand, he’s shocked to see it’s almost three, which means he was asleep far longer than he thought and also means Nicki needs to leave soon for tonight’s game.
Something he’s apparently still in denial about.
Andrew really needs to correct this. He might not understand hockey rules, but he understands contracts, and he knows exactly what is at stake if Nicki refuses to play.
He’d be in breach of contract, at risk of fine, suspension, trade or contract termination.
He’s not versed in the specifics of Nicki’s contract, so he has no idea which one is most likely, but since Nicki isn’t the friendliest of guys and is likely not on great terms with his GM, the odds are it wouldn’t be good.
Before he can muster up the energy to share any of these thoughts Nicki is speaking again in hushed, angry whispers. If he was trying not to wake Andrew up, he failed, which is likely for the best. Someone needs to stop him from making a mistake.
“Fuck you.”
“Nicki,” he tries, apparently too quietly to be heard.
“You think he needs to go to the hospital?”
Hospitals are Andrew’s least favorite place in the world.
The last time he was in one was after Alec’s accident, and he’s not sure he will ever forget having to see his baby brother broken like that.
Before that, his only trip to the hospital had been after he nearly drowned as a teenager.
All those machines, the sterile scent of death, Charlie’s terrified face.
Hospitals are bad, and Andrew would have to be on his deathbed to go, and even then someone would have to physically drag him.
The only reason he held it together after Alec’s accident was because everyone else was falling apart, and needing to be strong for them kept him from falling apart.
“No hospitals,” Andrew croaks.
Nicki swivels towards him. “Princess.”
“You call him princess?” Tony yells, loud enough to be heard through the phone.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Put him on speaker,” Andrew demands, rolling over to find Nicki pacing the room, dressed in nothing but his snug fitting designer boxer briefs.
He really is so handsome, it should be illegal.
Andrew loves looking at him. He’s aesthetically attractive, sure, but it's something less tangible that Andrew finds the most affecting. He knows firsthand how strong Nicki’s body is, how warm.
The tattoos that cover the majority of Nicki’s body from ankle to throat are intimately familiar now, and he likes that so much.
“Fine,” Nicki grumbles, quickly complying, even though it’s clear he doesn’t want to. “You’re on speaker phone, dickbag.”
“Is that any way to speak to your captain, Whitmore?”
“You’re on speaker, fuck face.”
“Hi, Tony,” Andrew interrupts, unsure how long these two could go on. Probably longer than he has the mental fortitude to listen to.
“Well, if it isn’t my new favorite person. I didn’t know there was anyone alive who could make our Nicholas into a more tolerable human, but you did it. Good job.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Nicki,” Andrew challenges, forcing himself into a seated position. Sure, Nicki is an asshole, but he’s understanding more and more how much of that is protective measures. Besides, Andrew is rather fond of his giant, grumpy asshole hockey player.
“Damn,” Tony whistles. “Whatever you did to get his loyalty, don’t fuck it up, man.”
This is clearly directed to Nicki who appears deeply displeased by the sentence.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Seriously though, are you alright?” Tony questions, returning his focus to Andrew. “Nicholas said you passed out. If you need to go to the hospital, I can talk to the GM. Given what a shithead our Nicholas is, I’m not sure he’s going to be very lenient, but—”
“I’m fine,” Andrew interrupts, refusing to let Nicki compromise his career because Andrew was feeling too pathetic to get off the floor.
“I don’t fucking trust your ‘fine’,” Nicki snaps.
There’s tension in him that Andrew needs to appease, so he lays down, pulling the blankets back in a wordless invitation.
Nicki moves with the speed of a professional athlete, phone in one hand as he pulls Andrew’s body against his own with his other, hefting Andrew into his lap.
It’s not the position he expected, but letting his cheek settle against Nicki’s bare chest, hearing the steady thrum of his solid heartbeat, does a number on Andrew’s sensory system.
His entire life he’s tried to learn how to relax, read enough books on neurodivergence and anxiety he could’ve gotten a degree in it.
He’s tried talk therapy and meditation and everything in between, yet none of it altered his brain chemistry the way Nicki’s strong, steady heart beating under his ear does.
Really, there are some untapped research opportunities out there because Andrew is pretty sure laying on his boyfriend’s chest, listening to the calm cadence of his life force, is possibly the most soothing thing in the world.
Every beat calms Andrew, who damn near forgets Tony is on the phone until he realizes Nicki is arguing with him again, and he must’ve zoned out.
“Then they can fire or trade me, I’m not leaving him alone again.”
“Tony,” Andrew says, refusing to move his head and instead raising his voice.
“Yeah?”
“Nicki will be there, don’t worry.”
“No, I fucking won’t,” Nicki argues.
At the same time, Tony lets out a relieved sigh, “Thanks, Andrew.”
“Nicki will see you at the game, Tony. Goodbye.”
Not waiting for more, he taps the end button, lowering it to the bed before refocusing his attention on Nicki’s heart. The beats have sped up, likely because he’s agitated, but the sound comforts him just the same. He doesn’t want Nicki to get out of bed and leave him, but he knows he has to.
“You can’t fucking make me go,” Nicki says, his petulant tone at odds with his harsh words. It’s endearing but also confusing. Andrew being sick doesn’t warrant this reaction.
“I can and I will,” Andrew counters. “You are not going to risk your career, one I know you love, because I’m a little sick.”
“You passed out on the bathroom floor.”
“I didn’t pass out,” Andrew protests.
“Then what the fuck happened?
“I was exhausted and fell asleep.”
“So exhausted that you, the man who likes comfort and routine and hates being dirty, fell asleep on the floor near the toilet. That isn’t much fucking better.” Nicki curls that big hand of his around the back of Andrew’s head, almost petting Andrew now.
“It’s not a big deal, Nicki.”
“It is to me,” he says, the hand at the back of Andrew’s hand shaking. “Do you have any fucking idea what went through my head when I saw you on the floor?”
“Oh,” Andrew exhales, suddenly understanding. Nicki was worried.
“Yeah, oh,” Nicki echoes sarcastically. “I thought you died.”
“That is slightly dramatic.”
“You were on the fucking floor.”
“I threw up,” Andrew admits. “I don’t like puking, it takes it out of me. I know no one likes it, but the sensory experience is—bad. It's deeply deregulating, and after I was done, I just…laid down and fell asleep. I’m sorry I worried you.”
“Maybe we should go to the hospital,” Nicki says, smoothing his hand over Andrew’s hair.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“But—”
“It’s not necessary, trust me. Sometimes people just get sick and feel like shit. Which I definitely do.”
Acknowledging it seems to make all his symptoms rise to the forefront as the need to focus on Nicki becomes less intense, and he realizes how bad he feels.
His neck still aches from the floor, his throat stings, his entire body is hot and flushed and the nausea, while not as intense, is strong enough that Andrew wishes someone would knock him unconscious again.
He hates when his body doesn’t feel like his own.
The loss of control is nearly unbearable.
The only thing keeping his sick spiral at bay is his concern for Nicki.
“Haven’t you ever seen someone sick? You went to boarding school.”
“I had private rooms.”
“Your parents?”