16. Nikolaus
Nikolaus
I have never understood people who can tolerate uncertainty.
In my experience, uncertainty is simply a problem that has not yet been solved. Information exists somewhere. Someone knows the answer. The trick is finding the right person, asking the right questions, and applying sufficient pressure until the truth reveals itself.
Unfortunately, Charlie appears to be the exception.
Four days after the initial appointment, the doctor returns with the first round of results.
Charlie and I sit together in the den, the fireplace on behind us as it’s been raining for the past twenty-four hours. The doctor settles into an armchair and opens a leather folder, then glances between us.
“Firstly, I want to thank you for sending over Charlie’s prior test results. Having access to those records has saved us a tremendous amount of time. A significant number of conditions have already been investigated and ruled out.”
I lean forward slightly. “Meaning?”
“Meaning we aren’t starting from zero.”
The doctor begins walking us through the findings and comparing them to Charlie’s previous results. Most of the bloodwork is exactly what Charlie said it would be—elevated inflammatory markers, persistently elevated white blood cell counts, and the strange ANA fluctuations.
Nothing definitive.
Nothing that points neatly toward a single diagnosis.
By the time he’s finished explaining, irritation is beginning to simmer beneath my skin.
Charlie notices and tells me quietly, “It’s okay.”
I turn toward him. “It isn’t.”
The doctor wisely says nothing.
Charlie shrugs. “I’m used to it.”
I hate that fucking answer.
As though spending every day feeling ill is something a person should simply accept.
As though exhaustion severe enough to derail entire weeks of his life is normal.
As though being twenty-five years old and struggling to carry groceries is something he should learn to live with.
The doctor clears his throat. “There are still several avenues I’d like to pursue.”
My attention snaps back immediately. “Such as?”
He flips through another page. “I’d like to repeat a few autoimmune panels. Not because I think previous physicians were wrong, but because some conditions evolve over time. I’d also like to investigate several things that don’t appear to have been explored extensively.”
He glances up at Charlie. “The most promising is a category of periodic fever syndromes—rare, primarily genetic conditions which can cause the sort of inflammatory spikes and systemic symptoms you’ve been experiencing. The hereditary forms are especially rare.”
I look at Charlie to gauge his reaction, but his face is expressionless. There’s a defensive slackness to his mouth that makes me want to shake him.
“So, what’s the timeline?” I say.
“I’d like to get the next round of labs as soon as possible. Some of the genetic panels require insurance pre-authorization, but given your situation—” He glances at me. “We can run them privately.”
I nod.
He closes the file. “I’ll call when we have approval. In the meantime—” He holds up his hand, preempting more questions. “We’re keeping pain control and nutrition as priorities. You have my cell. Please call if you notice any changes, especially in fever patterns.”
We thank him, and he leaves. The room is suddenly too quiet.
Charlie tucks his knees up and hugs them to his chest. The flames throw shifting shadows up the wall.
“You’re unhappy,” he says after a long time, without a question mark. “Don’t try to hide it.”
I have never been good at hiding it. “I’m just—” I clap my lips shut. The anger is pointless. “This isn’t a solution. I want a solution.”
Charlie gives a one-shouldered shrug.
I sigh, running my fingers through my hair. “Well, he did say the genetic fever ones were promising. And he mentioned mast cell disorders during the last appointment, so maybe he’s thinking it might be that.”
“Yeah…”
“What is it, baby?” I ask.
Charlie looks up at me, cheek pressed against his knee.
“It’s just best not to get too excited. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been told that I probably have something.
The doctors will listen to my symptoms and connect the dots, and I leave the appointment feeling like I’ve finally found it.
That I finally fit somewhere. I look up the treatment options for whatever it is, and start daydreaming about how I might finally feel better.
But then I get results back, they don’t find what they were sure was there, and I get passed off to another doctor. ”
He picks at a loose thread on his pants. The colors make a little rainbow at the hem. He doesn’t look at me, but the way his ankle is bouncing says he’s trying not to cry.
I want to tell him that I won’t let that happen.
That the endless shuffle will end here, with this doctor, or the next specialist, or with me personally flying a team of researchers in if that’s what it takes.
But I know him well enough to know that promises are useless right now—he’s lived too many years in that loop to believe me.
“I know.” I keep my voice level, gentler than I feel. “But this time…” I trail off, because what comes next is just wishful thinking, and we’ve both outgrown that.
He looks up at me, eyes glassy but unblinking. “What if there is no answer?”
“There is,” I say, softer, because he’s close enough now that I can see the tiny pink stretch marks on his upper arms. There is always an answer. Maybe not the one you want, or maybe not one you even recognize when it arrives. “There has to be. And I’m not going to stop until I get it for you.”
The fire crackles beside us. We sit in the orange warmth, two castaways in a storm with nothing left to throw overboard.
Charlie whispers, “What if it takes years, Niko?”
I pull him to my side, guiding his head to my shoulder. “Then it takes years.”
He sags into me, a slow collapse of resistance I feel as the transfer of his inertia into my own ribs.
It’s somehow more heartbreaking than his fear—this unresisting, practiced disappointment.
I curve an arm around him and let us drift sideways, until the heat from the fireplace soaks into the soles of my feet and the side of my face.
I can’t tell if the wet patch beneath my clavicle is from his eye or mine.
We stay that way long enough for the fire to die back to orange embers. My phone vibrates on the coffee table, skittering in a little circle. After it starts up again, I groan and reach over to grab it.
I answer quietly. “Yes?”
“You have six messages from Giuseppe,” Constantine states. I pull the phone away from my ear and check. Yep, six messages.
“How the fuck did you know that, stalker?”
I can practically hear his eye-roll through the speaker. “Because Giuseppe called me to bitch about it.”
“Goddammit,” I swear, stroking Charlie’s back when he flinches from my tone. “Well, what the fuck did he want?”
“He needed to verify details for your trip,” Constantine says.
My brows cinch together. “Trip? What trip?”
“Fucking—” Constantine takes a deep breath through his nose. “You are scheduled to meet a new distributor in Tijuana tomorrow night.”
I glance down. Charlie’s nearly limp in my lap, eyes closed, mouth in a soft line.
“Would you hate me if I told you to go in my place?”
“Yes,” he answers bluntly. “But I’ll handle it. I expect a thank-you gift upon my return.”
I grin. “Anything, brother. Now, be safe and don’t start any wars with the cartel, yeah?”
“Hése mas.” Fuck off.
He ends the call.
Charlie’s lashes flutter. “Is everything alright?”
“Everything’s fine, baby. Just work stuff. Constantine’s got it covered.”
Charlie blinks up at me, head on my chest. “How long have you known Constantine? You seem closer to him than anyone else you work with.”
I try to keep my answer casual, though I’m aware of the way Charlie’s head rises and falls with my breath.
“He was my TA in undergrad, actually. I was nineteen and full of shit, and he was… not much older, but already smarter than anyone else in the room. He was always correcting the professor behind his back. I figured he was an asshole.” I brush the hair back from Charlie’s forehead.
“But then he caught me trying to cheat my way through the final project, and instead of ratting me out, he made me redo it. Sat with me for four hours while I worked. I don’t think anyone had ever done that for me before. ”
Charlie’s lips tip up in a faint smile. “He’s kind.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that.” The memory makes me smile. “He’d rather die than be caught doing something nice. But he is. If I ever drop dead, he’ll probably be the only person in the will who won’t sell my organs.”
Charlie laughs, and it’s a real one—brief, high, startled out of him. It vibrates through my chest, and for a second, I remember exactly why I have always needed to be the one to fix things. Not just for myself. I crave the relief that comes from seeing someone truly smile.
He twists a little, repositioning so he’s half on top of me, legs folded to the side.
I let myself relax for the first time all day. The storm outside has gone from background noise to a deep, inescapable presence. Rain batters the windows, the dark sky shrouding the city.
He tucks his face closer, nuzzling at the collar of my shirt.
The gesture is so childlike it cracks something in me.
When I run my fingers down his spine, he shivers—not from cold, but from the relief of being allowed this moment.
His breathing slows into a kind of trance, the sadness of before dissolving molecule by molecule.
“Do you want to go upstairs?” I ask softly, because the question means more than the words.
He shakes his head and mutters, “No. Want to stay here.”
I don’t press him. It’s not reluctance I hear, but a different request—stay with me, just as we are, for as long as we can. I stroke his back until my hand is as gentle and unthinking as the fall of rain. He settles, boneless, a small sigh escaping him on every exhale.