“Did you message Brian?” His mom asked.
“Brian is really busy right now, Mom. They’re working a big case.”
“He’s your boyfriend. He’ll want to know,” His mom argued.
“Not if there’s nothing he can do about it. He’s locked down, Mom.” Sway’s head pounded furiously. Not being able to be with Brian wasn’t helping his already cranky mood. “Besides, the last thing I want him to do is catch this. Or you. Don’t come in here, Mom. You have a pain shot scheduled next week and you can’t get it if you’re under the weather.”
“He’s right, Steph. Come on out of there,” Tweetie called to her. “I’ll take care of him. You know that.”
Sway’s mom looked sad when she pushed the power button on her chair and rolled back into the living room. He could hear her whispering through the thin walls. “Can you put together some soup, Tweets? He can’t eat anything too heavy. I’ll get the veggies started.”
Sway woke up two and half hours later to the smell of homemade chicken noodle soup and a one-hundred and two fever. Shit. He sat up and groaned, clutching his belly. Grappling for his wastebasket, he barely had his face inside, before the contents in his gut emptied.
Tweetie busted into his room, his mom close behind her.
“I’m fine. I’m fine. Go, please,” Sway said miserably, trying to wave them away while his face was still in his own vomit. “Close the door.”
The ladies reluctantly left him. He didn’t want anyone fussing over him. It was just a forty-eight-hour virus, there was no need for them to go overboard. Sway finally got off the floor and hobbled to the bathroom to clean up. He was so weak, and his limbs felt as if they had twenty-pound weights suspended from them. Every task, from washing his hands to brushing his teeth, took Herculean effort.
When he was finished in the bathroom, he tried to go right back to bed, but Tweetie caught his arm and ushered him towards the small dinette table. He followed with little resistance because he had no strength to fight. The sooner he did what she wanted, the sooner he could lie back down. He tightened his robe as he was sat in front of a deep bowl of chicken noodle soup that was mostly broth and very little noodle.
“Eat shuga’. Gotta keep your energy up.” Tweetie sat opposite him and watched him like a warden. “Drink all that broth, too. Chicken soup is good for the soul, ain’t it Steph? That book sold millions. I don’t know why I didn’t submit my recipe.”
“Yep. That’s what they say,” his mom readily agreed with her best friend, as usual.
“Tweets, that an inspirational book. It’s not actually about chicken soup,” Sway mumbled, sitting hunched over with the bowl in both hands. Although if the authors of that book had tasted this soup, they’d have added the recipe as an addendum.
“Really? Is that common knowledge?” Tweetie asked.
Sway could only laugh on the inside. “I’m afraid so.”
“Well, catchy title.” Tweetie took a large gulp of her Dr. Pepper.
“Mom did you eat all your dinner or are you still having a lot of heartburn?” Sway was drowsy and disoriented, but he couldn’t cut off his true nature, not even when he was down.
“I ate, Squirt. Don’t worry about me, just focus on you getting better.” His mom wheeled over and started to rub his shoulders through his old cloth robe.
“Mom, I know you hate to see me sick, but please, stay back.” Sway loved his mom’s comfort, but getting her sick would exacerbate his stress. “You can’t have them delay that shot. You need it.”
“Squirt, call Brian,” his mom said once more. He loved her soft, calming voice.
But he didn’t want to hear it right then. He was done with that dispute. He wasn’t texting Brian and he damn sure wasn’t going into the reasons why again. He didn’t need his boyfriend to drop everything and run to him. There was nothing that could be done for a virus. He had to ride it out until it ran its course. Sway got up slowly—needing the room to stop spinning before he could walk—and ambled his aching body to his bed.
When Brian returned an hour later, Vaughan was there. He walked right up to Brian and gave him a one-armed hug. He’d always liked Duke’s partner who was also Quick’s only son. He was young, fourteen years Duke’s junior, but when he spoke he told his true age. Quick had called his son an old soul. Vaughan had crushed on Duke for most of his teenage life. He’d gone abroad to school, said he’d left to grow up. When he’d returned home, a brilliant young lawyer, full of confidence and charisma; he’d went after exactly what he wanted—Duke.
“How you been, Brian?” Vaughan asked, tucking one hand into his dark blue pants pocket. Vaughan’s designer suit fit his lean body to perfection, making him look like one of those Invictus models.