Hate | Love

Tharn Deserves Your Eggs

(Chapter 7 End Part and Part 1/2 Chapter 8 in the novels)

***

Type was feverish for several hours. Chills running all over his body that he felt incased in ice. Surprisingly, the nightmare was gone. There was a presence that made him feel secure, as if he was enclosed in a warm cocoon of fuzz.

His felt his mom change his shirt a few times, feeling the soft, soothing touch of a cool cloth that made his fever disperse. His dad was there, guiding him to sit down and take a few more pills. He knew he was in great care and that was all that mattered in his sickness-dulled mind.

He was oblivious. He had no idea that the person he hated the most was the Mom and the Dad that waited with bated breath as he battled the bug that seemed to shake him from the very core.

Tharn looked at the sleeping figure beside him. He was seated at the edge of Type's bed, a basin of water on his lap having just wiped off the sweat that profusely leaked out of the resting figure because of the medicines.

"I don't know why I care Type," Tharn whispered to himself, reaching out a hand to test the temperature of Type's forehead, "You remind me of all the hate that is flung at people like me all the time. But I am not like that. I could not just leave you here to suffer. That is just not me," as he stood up and went to the bathroom to put the basin back, satisfied that Type was well on his way to recovery.

He missed a day of classes. He missed practical rehearsals on his drums. He missed school, but how could he prioritize those things when someone needed him? He could not just do that.

***

The hours came to visit.

One after the other, they came and peered through the clock. Watching as one young man was lying on the bed and another was carefully tending to the other who was oblivious to what was going on.

Another visitor came, and the anxious young man who had been caring for the other left. Before the visitor also walked out of the room, carefully making sure that his mate was still in slumber; the fever almost gone from his system.

The day slowly darkened into early evening. And the prone young man stirred.

Type felt sore all over. Like his extremities were weighted down with lead and a slight throb still bothered his head. He slowly opened his eyes, not really sure where he was.

He struggled to sit up on the bed, pushing away the comforter that covered him. He looked around him, and things clicked into place.

He was sick, was probably still a little, but he was in his dormitory. He was on his bed. He was alone, but he could seem to remember a voice that calmed him when he was weathering the storm of chills and a tender hand that chased away the nightmares.

Beside him, on a chair, were pills and medicines and gel pads. Somebody was there to take care of him. In his mind's eye he could remember his Mom washing his sweat drenched body with a washcloth; just like when he was a kid, his Dad was there too to make him take the pills. But it was impossible. They were far away.

"Who could it be?" Type asked to nobody in particular, "Tharn?" he whispered, then shook his head.

"No," he told himself, "He wouldn't, the guy hates me. And I... I... I ha...hate him." He stammered, trying to convince himself that the idea abhorred him, but his heart skipped a beat. "He couldn't have, " Type clutched at the comforter on his lap, "He has classes. Who am I for him to skip class for, I'm just they guy who is trying to kick him out of the room." Lamely, he muttered, safe in the knowledge that he was alone.