The moment I come back into the room with the pillows and the fan, I say, just to let him know of my presence, "Hey, Antoine." I gently shut the door behind me, before setting down the small fan on my nightstand, turning it on so it gently blows in his face.
His eyes are open, and he says, "Hi, Reese Mallory. Can I ask you something?" I look to his face, and am surprised to see that blessèd little smile creeping up on him once again.
"Sure, go ahead," I say, gently propping up pillows around his head to give it more comfortable cushioning.
He slips his arm out from underneath the blanket, and points across the room, at the wall, and I feel warmth fill my cheeks when I see he's pointing at drawings on my wall. He asks, "Did you draw those?"
The three that are hanging there on my tack board right now are a sketch of a skull, a sketch of a heart, and an ink drawing of lungs, where one side is just normal, and the other is made of all different kinds of flowers. I scratch my neck, looking away from his eyes, at the floor. All of them, of course, were done by me. Finally I mutter, "Yeah, I drew those..."
"Oh," he nods, saying, "Reese, can you look at me?"
I look at him, confused.
There's a surprising smile in his eyes, and he says, "Those are really cool. Your art is beautiful. Interested in drawing human body parts?"
"Ugh, trust me, it's not like I'm some overly morbid girl or something!" I blurt quickly. "Just lately, I've been practicing!"
"It's okay," he chuckles oh so very softly, saying, "I never once thought you were morbid."
"Right," I swallow, glancing around the room to see if I have any of my other art hung up right now, but I don't. Luckily. Still, it really does make me feel very warm and fuzzy inside to hear he thinks it looks nice. I love drawing, painting, sculpting... any kind of art. And to have him just see a small, not-so-extraordinary sample of it, and say it looks really nice? I love that. That's so sweet, because, although he probably doesn't even know it, my art is very important to me. And my success in it. Probably much like how football is for him, actually. Finally I say, "Antoine, do you want to take this ibuprofen now? It'll probably help your fever go down, I'm thinking." I gently place my hand on his forehead, and am uncomfortable and unhappy to know that he hasn't gotten any better just by simply resting.
He nods, saying, "Sure, I'll take it." He starts to sit up with a painful grown, and he tries to push himself up with his arms but they wobble, and he suddenly flops back down, saying, "That... I'm dizzy..."
"Yeah," I sigh, and mutter more to myself than to him, "You really are ill."
He hears, and nods with an unhappy sigh. "Yeah... I am."
"Okay, take my hand," I order.
"Hmmm?" he asks, raising an inquiring eyebrow, but trusts me enough anyway, apparently, to hold his hand out to me.
"I'm gonna help you sit up, because you've got to take this pill, but I also don't want you choking," I respond, taking his hand. It's smooth, long, and slender, and I can feel the veins in it. He has a good hand. I like it. I put my other arm gently around his back and push his back up as I pull his hand. He tries his best to sit up with the least of my help, but I do a lot of it, and when he sits up all the way, he sits a few seconds, his eyes looking kind of glazed over, and suddenly, his head flops onto my shoulder.
"Antoine!" I say, alarmed, putting my arm around his (very strong) back. "Antoine, are you okay?" I ask, feeling urgency fill me.
"Yeah," he responds, gently raising his head to look at me. "I just... felt a little lightheaded at sitting up. Sorry... My head just got quiet heavy and dizzy for a moment. I'm fine, though. Don't worry." Despite his suggestion, I am very worried. He seems way too sick. Should I call somebody? Or am I doing just fine at taking care of him myself? Maybe the ibuprofen will do its job... That's the hope, at least.
I grab two ibuprofen out of the jar and the glass of water. I hand him one of the pills, and he puts it in his mouth, before I hand him the water. He holds it in both hands, taking a bit sip to get the pill down. We do the same with the second pill. The whole time, I'm sitting on the edge of the bed next to him, my arm around his back, giving him support as he leans his body against the side of mine. Finally he finishes, saying, "Thank you. Sorry."
"You're welcome... And what are you sorry for?" I ask as I let him lay back down again, getting settled.
"Relying on you so much. We hardly know each other. We know each other better from dislike, and yet I'm leaning on you and letting you help me. So I'm sorry, because we're not close enough to do that, and it's not appropriate of me. Sorry."
I stare at him in awe. "Antoine, how could you say that?"
"What do you mean?" he looks up at me, eyebrows furrowed.
"You already said you'd go, but it's me who won't let you. I'm taking care of you because I want to. I know it's the right thing, because you're seriously ill. I understand you're not in your strongest state right now, so I don't mind if you lean on me or need help. That's what I'm here for right now."
He smiles once again. "Then just 'thank you'?"
"Yes. And you're very welcome."
I like how content he looks at that. Not a smile, but just peaceful. Content.
