"Collin? Are you okay?"

A male voice came through as if from great distance. A wince creased Collin's face, and a pained, little whine slipped through his lips. Droplets of sweat glittered his forehead and his clothes were soaked, his shirt clinging to him like a wetsuit.

Shifting, he turned away from the noise.

"Collin?"

Big hands gripped his shoulders, shaking him awake. His eyes struggled open.

"What?" he asked, voice so thin and small that the already worried face that was watching him cracked into panic.

"What's wrong?" Max asked, his eyes rounded like saucers. "You were tossing and turning, and making some weird noise."

His head, as if stuffed with cotton, had trouble processing information, and it took Collin a few long seconds to comprehend what was going on. He was in his dark bedroom with Max staring at him.

"I don't feel great," Collin said. A shiver shook his entire body, and he felt like he was freezing despite being covered by the thick duvet.

He sat up, feeling his forehead with the top of his palm. Hot and grossly moist.

"I probably have a fever," he explained.

Max clutched him so tightly, something in his back cracked. "Are you dying?" he asked.

"No, no," Collin calmed him, gently stroking his back, and resting his cheek on Max's shoulder as if too tired to support his head. "I just need to get some medication, and I'll be fine soon."

After a few deep breaths to jump start himself and with a heavy, old man groan, he stood up. Every each joint and every each muscle screamed in pain, and his legs gave out, making him plop back onto the mattress.

Max, who watched him the entire time, scooted closer. He forked his hands under Collin's legs and lifted him up like he weighed nothing. Collin let out a surprised yelp, draping his hand over the man's shoulder.

"Where's your medication?" Max asked.

"Bathroom, but, Max! I can walk there myself," Collin protested, glad the fever at least made it difficult for anyone to tell he was blushing.

"No, you can't," Max replied. He took Collin to the bathroom, swiftly weaving between the doors. "Where?"

"The cabinet," he answered. For a second, Collin hesitated, thinking Max would let him down onto the floor, but the guy didn't make a single move, so he reached to the cabinet instead. Once he had the bottle of paracetamol in hand, Max carried him to the kitchen. There he sat him down on the counter.

He retrieved a cup and poured some water into it. Then he handed it to Collin.

"Thank you," Collin replied. He popped a pill.

He sucked in his breath when Max got in between his legs. "Um…" he let out. His cheeks couldn't get any hotter.

And then they somehow did.

Max put his hands under Collin's thigh, almost reaching his butt. Their chests pressed against each other and he was lifted just like that.

As they got to the bed, Max's right hand slipped onto Collin's back and he leaned over the mattress to lay him down, movement so gentle as if he was handling a precious vase. Collin's legs were spread open, Max in between them. For a few long seconds, they just watched each other, the only sound in the room their soft breaths, but the tension so thick Collin felt it choke him. He swallowed, heart pounding in his chest.

Max pushed himself up, and Collin couldn't help but feel a tinge of disappointment in the pit of his stomach. A thick duvet was thrown over him.

"Get some rest," Max said, soon leaving him alone in the bedroom.

—

"Collin?"

Collin grumbled under his breath, turning to his side. His green eyes strained open.

"What is it?" he asked.

Max threw a plastic bag onto the bed with a clatter of plastic bottles. "Your medication," he announced.

Collin's brows drew together. "Medication?" he repeated.

As he propped himself on his elbow, Max spilled the contents of the bag onto the mattress. Vitamin C, flu medication, an isotonic drink. But that wasn't what caught his attention first.

"Is that a chicken?" he asked.

A full chicken, dead, bagged thankfully (but still), was now on his bed.

"Yes, for a chicken noodle soup," Max answered.

Collin laid back down, too exhausted to argue or to scold. "You're going to burn my kitchen down, aren't you?"

"No, I have this." Max reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. A printed out chicken noodle soup recipe. Oddly long.

"Where did you get that?" Collin asked. Yes, he had a printer at home, but there was no way Max knew how to work it. Right…?

Simply, as if it was completely normal and expected, Max answered: "Amy printed it out for me, and she explained everything."

"Who's Amy?"

"The pharmacist."

Collin frowned. Did he hear it right?

"The pharmacist?" he repeated.

"Yes," Max confirmed. "She said it was a slow night and she was bored, so. And she thought it was cute that I wanted to take care of my boy friend?"

"Boyfriend?" Collin repeated again. With each word he was more and more sure this wasn't happening. The fever had to rise so high, he was now hallucinating this entire conversation.

"Yes," Max answered, voice as casual as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"But I'm not your boyfriend," Collin corrected.

"Are you a boy?"

"Yes, but—"

"Are you my friend?"

"Yes, but—"

"That's a boy friend then," Max stated. Then he straightened himself up, shoveling everything back into the bag. "Okay, I have to start on the soup."

Collin glanced at his phone. "It's 3 a.m."

"Amy said the soup has to boil for a few hours."

"But—" Collin only managed to let out, but Max wasn't listening, already on his way to the kitchen.