Broken Compass

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he replies, voice cracking slightly. “I’m just tired. I’m going to bed.” He takes two steps before I find words to reply, and stops, swaying alarmingly. “Fuck.”

I’m at his side, grabbing his arm instantly. “What is it? Are you sick?”

He looks awful. Dazed, face pale, spots of red on his cheeks. “Dunno. I don’t feel so hot.”

“Shit. Let’s get you to bed.”

Even more alarming is the fact he lets me sling his arm over my shoulders and help him to his room.

Or maybe not. When did I ever take care of Kash? Maybe he’s not as averse to contact and touching and accepting help as I am. He’s normal. I’m the one who’s out of whack.

He’s burning hot where he’s pressed to my side, and his breathing is quick and shallow. I’ve never seen him sick before, never seen him anything but strong and in control. It’s disconcerting and a little scary.

Also strangely charming, as he sinks down on the bed and grunts softly when I pull off his shoes and socks, his eyes fluttering closed, a sigh escaping him. Huh. Would you look at that. Seems as though I enjoy taking care of Kash.

Nah.

But his eyes are wide as I help him get under the covers and sit down on the edge of his bed.

“Are you okay?” he asks finally, and I start to laugh.

Yeah, I’ve been an ass to everyone. No wonder Kash is looking at me like I’m a pod person. “Yeah.” I reach out, place my hand on his forehead to check his temperature. “You’re not, though. You’re burning up.”

“I’ll survive. I’m good at that.”

The edge in his voice catches at something in my chest, and I remember my dream from the other night, when Syd woke me up. Kash was there. He was… a boy. Something about a boarding school, and an uncle, and a broken halo.

Kash produces a small sound from the back of his throat, and that’s when I realize my hand is still on his face, only it has drifted down to his jaw.

I’m oddly reluctant to move away. I stroke the light stubble there, and it’s rougher than his hair, ticklish.

Here’s the thing. He doesn’t move me the same way Syd does, doesn’t get me horny and hard in nanoseconds, but I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t want to touch him more, and I’m done with lying.

Seriously, it’s a miracle I can still get hard after everything. That I can feel something. Anything at all.

His hand lifts and rests on top of mine. “Nate?” Quiet. Laced with curiosity. With interest. “What are you doing?”

I shake my head, unsure myself. I trace his mouth with my thumb, and he says nothing. His lips are soft and warm, and I want to taste them, but I’m not sure what that means and where it would lead if Kash wasn’t sick.

If I wasn’t sure I’d freak out the moment he as much as moves or touches me.

In fact, why am I not freaking out yet? Is it because I’m the one initiating the contact, touching, taking control?

This is nuts.

“I should get you something to lower the fever,” I mutter, and start getting up, but Kash grabs my wrist, holds me still with startling strength.

Holds me down.

“Wait,” he whispers, and I can’t escape that gray gaze that’s burning with fever or something else I don’t wanna think about right now. “Wait.” He draws a slow breath. “You wanted to talk to me about something. Is it about West, or Syd? Or… your dad, or…?”

“No. None of that.”

“Then what was it?”

I hesitate. Feels wrong to ask when he’s feeling unwell, but... “Syd said… she said you get panic attacks.”

“The hell.” He doesn’t sound angry, only slightly out of breath, and tired. “Yeah. I do.”