(no subject)
Title: Rain
Genre: FWP: Fluff Without Plot
Word Count: 848
Rating/Warnings: PG. If you ignore whatever Nate must’ve been thinking.
Summary: The two things Tyrone hates most: being sick (particularly when it screws with his throat) and rain. The thing he loves most, and that makes it all better: a very tender lack of pity from his girlfriend.
Notes: You still owe me that fic, damn you. And you said it’d be done today. *Done being an argumentative little brat now, and hugglecling* Happy birthday (now a day late). And please come back? (Also? Tyrone says that if you’re not going to get back on to send Nate over here. I think that’s a bad idea. I don’t want them having make-up sex in my head, thank you. KEEP HER.)
Love you, dearling.
“I hate the rain,” Tyrone muttered as he sat on his bed morosely staring out the window, knees pulled up to his chin. Some four or five years ago, when he was still a skinny shrimp of a thing, it wouldn’t have been at all out of place. Now? I’m almost six and a half feet tall, growing, and still act like I’m ten. Well, I’m crazy; I can be forgiven.
Not only that, but he was home alone. Friday-his third day home from school, too. He’d already missed half his ensemble practices that week. Oh fuck it. Why now? Why spring? And why the week before my callback? I need to be healthy… He snorted slightly, to himself, as he reached for the ever-present thermometer. He hummed slightly to himself as he lay back, trying not to cough while the thing was turned on.
I hate being sick. I hate the rain. I hate this whole fucking thing known as life, and it needs to just go the hell away now. Before I make it. Times like this Tyrone was very, very glad his father wasn’t psychic. We’ve got problems enough as it is, with the money. Don’t need him knowing my meds aren’t working… Sighing, he pulled the thermometer out of his mouth, and swore in Gaelic, which promptly turned into a hacking cough. 100.7. At least it’s down a couple tenths of a degree…
“I’m bored,” he muttered to himself. And it really wasn’t fair. It was his senior year-by all rights he should be going to join Martin and David and Tamara and Nate at a coffee shop around now-what with class getting out early and seniors being let off campus-and messing around, getting into trouble before he had to worry about making a living for himself. Not too long, now… make the best of it I can. And what happens? I get fucking sick. And he couldn’t really go sit outside, either, what with the rain. Mum’d kill me.
Blinking as he realized the doorbell was ringing, and he groaned and climbed out of bed. My hair’s a mess. And I look like crap. He only had on a white tee-shirt-the kind he generally wore under his shirts-and his boxers. After all, he’d spent the last two days in bed with a raging fever. As he unlocked the door, he realized he was half-leaning against the door. Huh. I’m worse than I thought. Blinking a moment, he remembered he had to look down at people now, mostly…
Or, as the case may be, very, very far down.
“….Nate? What’re you doing here?” Tyrone stared down at his tiny girlfriend in astonishment.
“I came to check that you hadn’t accidentally poisoned yourself with your antibiotics,” she said coolly.
She pushed past him, totally calm, as if this were her home-her mother’s nifty high-power-lawyer apartment-and not the rather chaotic Astin home that always seemed like there was more than just one child, and probably multiple small children running around. Not an organized doctor, mildly disorganized English teacher, and one eighteen year old musical genius with a talent for never picking up after himself.
“I’m not that inept,” he protested weakly as he closed the door and followed her rather docilely to the kitchen.
“Of course you are,” she said rather peremptorily. “Go back to bed.”
“But..” He trailed off at her look, and meekly wandered back into his room. A few minutes later, as he was lying on the bed wondering what in hell she was thinking, she came back in with some cold water and a cold compress. “You look flushed.”
Still confused, Tyrone stammered, “But it’s… really not going to help at all, if you…”
“Tyrone. Drink it.”
“…Yes ma’am.” He quietly acquiesced, other than the coughing fit that threatened to have him swallow the water the wrong way, but he managed it. Finally she made him lie back down and gently put the cold compress to his forehead. “I tried that, Nate. It won’t make my fever go down.”
“But you feel better.”
“…Maybe a little,” he conceded. But then she was wrapping her arms around his neck and snuggling against him, and Tyrone had to draw a breath momentarily. Stop. You’ve turned her down once, remember? And do you recall why?
…Right. ‘Cause I’m crazy. Tyrone wrapped an arm around her waist. “You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know.” Nothing else, and he sighed a little as he pulled her closer. He focused hard on the cold on his forehead-it was distraction enough for the boy to keep his mind clear. Otherwise… otherwise I’d probably be getting her sick too. Which reminds me. “Nate, don’t try kissing me.”
“Did I offer?”
“No. Just saying. Can’t have both our voices ruined for life.” She hit him, lightly.
“Drama queen.” They lay there together, silent, for quite some time, and slowly he relaxed.
“…Nate? I’m bored.”
She punched him-not too hard, but harder than before. “There. Excitement.”
“…I’m still bored.”
“Shut up.”