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Flu season arrives in Pittsburgh as it always does - relentless, apathetic to the suffering left in its wake and a huge pain in Robby’s ass.
No matter how many times you firmly tell people to stay home and not seek medical attention for a fever and a cough, people come to the ED, bringing the damn virus with them like a plague. And no matter how many flu-shots he gets, no matter how many masks he wears and hand-sanitizer he uses, Robby always ends up catching it.
This year is no different.
Luckily, though, it hits on one of his weekends off. The previous year he had to call off sick - which is obviously the right call but always leaves him with a weird case of guilt. Like he’s letting people down. Which - he probably should talk to someone about, even if it is the least of the reasons he should look into finding a psychiatrist.
As it is, Robby is more focused on surviving, rather than self-care.
He’s sprawled out on the couch in his sweats - it was a monumental effort to move from bed to there but he just cannot fathom the idea of staying in bed all day. There’s something claustrophobic about it that he can’t put a finger on. Again, not the time to delve into his personal demons.
His symptoms are perfectly typical. A fever of 102, a sore throat, a dry cough that makes his back ache and - general aches all over. Not to mention the fucking fatigue - a bone deep tired that leaves him feeling awful.
Robby texts the hospital to let them know he is sick - just in case his recovery drags on and they need to find cover on Monday. There is an incredibly dry response of ‘good to know, get better soon’ - the second half sounds more like a demand than well wishes. Then, he wraps himself into several blankets, tucks his slippered feet onto the coffee table and turns on the TV. Ends up on a marathon of old ‘Friends’ episodes and settles in.
About two minutes later, he shrugs off all the blankets with a groan.
Five minutes after that, they are back on while he shivers so badly his teeth are chattering.
Ten minutes after that, Robby considers the merits of euthanasia.
There’s a soft buzz at his hip. Another text coming in. He digs it out from under the once again discarded blankets, squinting at the screen - too damn tired to reach over to the coffee table for his glasses.
The lines on his face smooth out somewhat seeing who it is from. Dennis. There’s a picture attached - there is simultaneously a clench of hunger in his belly as well as a roil of nausea seeing a huge plate of pancakes - complete with a whipped cream smiley face on them.
‘pretty good start of the day :)’ is written across the bottom of the picture.
Robby snorts, then taps out a response - a little slow going with his hands feeling a tiny bit numb. ‘Good morning. Sure looks like it’
‘Morning :) we still on for today?’
In his fever haze, it takes Robby a minute to figure out what he means. Another groan, a tad more miserable, pushes up his throat and he sinks further into his discarded nest of blankets. Dennis is supposed to come over today - to study for his upcoming tests, to just spend time in general. Robby’s been looking forward to it through his entire work week.
Well, it is what it is. There will be other days. It doesn’t make it any less shitty. After a quick, bullet sharp cough into the crook of his elbow, Robby responds, ‘Sorry, think I’ve caught the flu. Woke up sick, should’ve texted earlier. Raincheck?’
The response is immediate. ‘are you okay? do you need anything?’
A bullet to the head, Robby thinks morosely, but realises that asking to be Old Yeller-ed is far too grim to write in a casual text. At least when not texting Jack. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘you have food and medicine?’
Right. That’s a thing. Medicine is obviously a no brainer - he’s a doctor, he’s got all sorts of useful things in his bathroom cabinet. Food is another matter. Though Robby’s kitchen has been decidedly better stocked since he and Dennis started dating, it’s still all ingredients rather than meals. Not much help with the crap way he is feeling. Appetite down the toilet, it doesn’t seem like much of a concern, though.
‘All good’ he texts, like a liar.
‘you sure? I could drop by with something?’
Tempting as it is, something squirms uncomfortably in Robby’s gut at the idea. Decades of indoctrination on masculine pride, maybe. The idea of anyone seeing him in this sort of state is…he grunts, tugs the blankets back on as a shiver travels down his spine.
‘You’re sweet. I’m fine. Don’t worry.’
‘what’s your fever at?’
‘102,3. I swear, I’m good.’
‘okay. still gonna worry a bit <3’
Oh, well that is. Something. Robby’s lips tug into a tired smile as he sets his phone down and settles back on the couch.
-
He must have fallen asleep, because Robby startles awake to the sound of the doorbell chiming - shrill and far too loud to his ears. Immediately he is aware he has gotten worse - his head is pounding, his mouth is dry and he’s absolutely soaked in sweat. Every muscle protests as he sits up with a raspy groan - immediately his lungs join the riot in the way of a solid twenty seconds of coughing.
The doorbell rings again and fucking hell. Getting to his feet with a lurch, he pads the short distance down the hall to the door. There is a third ring before he finally yanks the door open to glare blearily at-
Dennis.
Dennis Whitaker is standing on his doorstep, huddled in Robby’s own dark blue ski-jacket, burdened by two reusable grocery bags. They’ve got cows on them. Which is odd to focus on, but his addled brain just snatches onto that detail and refuses to let go.
“Oh, man,” Dennis blurts, staring up at him. “You look awful.”
“Nice to see you too,” Michael rasps out. The cold air rushing in from outside is both refreshing and skin-pricklingly painful. “The hell are you doing here?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out so harsh - he’s just - very tired. And confused.
“Came to check on you,” Dennis looks hesitant suddenly, in a way Michael doesn’t like one bit. Like he is unsure if he is welcome at all. “I - I know you said you were fine, just. You know. Wanted to make sure.”
Michael’s chest throbs. It has nothing to do with his being sick.
“That is very sweet,” he murmurs, leaning heavily on the doorframe. “But you should -” he’s cut off by a flutter and itch at the depths of his lungs. Quickly, Michael backs up, turns away and covers his mouth with his arm just in time to catch a rather horrid harangue of coughs. Dry, lung rattling and fucking exhausting.
“Oh, shoot, cold air - sorry, let’s,” Dennis doesn’t finish his sentence, but rather gets to action. He slips inside and shuts the door behind himself, kicking off his shoes as he goes and quickly gets a steadying hand on Michael’s elbow.
“I’m good, I’m fine,” Michael manages to wheeze out at the tail end of it. His face feels hot, his eyes are watering and the feeling of misery is at a peak. “Look, you really should-” Another cough and fucking hell. His lungs feel like they are folding in on themselves.
“Ookay, let’s get you seated before we continue this conversation,” Dennis says firmly - the kind of voice he’s overheard him using with patients in the ED all those weeks ago. Gently, he starts steering him through the house. Michael surrenders to it because he is getting kind of dizzy and maybe he does need to sit down.
Dennis makes quick work of putting him back on the couch and getting a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Gently smoothes back his hair with his hand and Michael groans, loud and throaty - his fingers are cool and feel like a heavensent brushing against his overheated skin.
“Holy moly,” Dennis mutters, frowning down at him. “Have you taken anything for the fever? You’re like a furnace.”
“This morning,” Michael murmurs, tilting his head back against the backrest of the couch and closing his eyes. “Tylenol."
“Due for some more, then. Did you eat?”
“Not hungry.” Michael cracks his eyes open for the discontented noise from above. Dennis’ frown has grown a little deeper. It’s adorable.
“Let me get you some tea and I’ll get started on lunch.” Dennis’ fingers brush against his cheek and Michael sighs, leaning into it. Even as he does, he knows it’s a really bad idea.
“You should go. You’ll get sick too, baby.”
“I never get sick.”
“Famous last words.”
“Seriously. Farm kid. I never catch anything,” Dennis argues and his tone is so firm and Michael is too fucking tired to fight. And some part of him doesn’t want to fight, either, because Dennis is stroking his hair and it has been years since anyone gave a real shit if Michael Robinavitch caught the flu. Except for scheduling issues.
So, Michael gives in - sighs heavily and lets his body go loose. “Fine. But no funny business. I expect to be left unravished by the end of this visit.”
“Tempting as it is,” Dennis rolls his eyes with the tiniest of smiles, “you’re not actually looking all that ravishing at the moment.”
“Ouch, kick a man while he’s down.”
-
Dennis briefly disappears to the kitchen to dump the contents of his mysterious cow-adorned bags. He returns with a big mug of tea, Tylenol and a clementine that he insists on peeling for Michael. It’s a little ridiculous, sitting huddled up at the crease of the armrest and back of the couch, watching as a man half his age fixes him up with a piece of fruit.
Though he certainly won’t complain. Especially not when the sweet taste of juice from the first wedge fills his mouth. He still isn’t hungry, but he won’t deny it’s really nice and sorely needed. The tea is even better - some sort of lemon tea with copious amounts of honey that really puts a dent in the ragged rock-landscape that seems to have replaced the soft tissue of his pharynx.
Dennis leaves him to the shenanigans of Chandler Bing and Joey Tribiani playing foosball to make lunch. Before long, there is a tantalizing scent of spices and chicken permeating the house. Something homey and vaguely nostalgic.
About an episode and a half later, Dennis comes back with a tray - ladened with orange juice, a bowl of mouthwatering-looking chicken soup and some bread rolls that look suspiciously rustic.
“Did you bake bread?” Michael has to ask.
“Not today.” Dennis’ neck flushed as he sits down and carefully places the tray on Michael’s lap. “I - made a batch of sourdough last week and froze it at Santos’ place. Thought I’d bring some, soup’s better with bread.”
“Thought you didn’t like soup.”
“I don’t.”
“But you-?”
“It’s what you feed sick people,” Dennis huffs, then returns to the kitchen to fetch his own tray with food - settling in closer than is probably advisable, shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh. Michael’s not about to complain - at this point it hardly makes a difference, contagion-wise. “And I can suffer through some soup for your health.”
“That’s almost sweet,” Michael snorts. Then, before he can think better of it, leans over and presses a small, dry kiss to Dennis’ cheek. “Thank you, baby.”
“You’re very welcome,” Dennis mumbles down into his bowl. His cheeks are pink. And for just a moment, Michael forgets all about being sick.
Michael spends the rest of the day with his head in Dennis’ lap, letting him stroke his hair and rub his aching temples - he reciprocates with gentle squeezes with the hand on Dennis’ thigh. Every now and then Dennis slides one hand further down to massage his sore neck - it’s all Michael can do not to whimper in relief each time, feeling the tension seep away.
Before long, the firm cushion of muscle, a cool palm on the side of his neck and his own heavy, thudding pulse in his ear send him slipping off into a dreamless sleep.
-
A few hours later, there is a quiet knock on the door. Dennis looks up from where he’s been rather dopily smiling down at his peacefully sleeping boyfriend. He waits a second, something anxious squirming in his belly - it feels weird to open the door at Michael’s house, especially with the owner of said house being unconscious. But as there is another knock and Michael’s eyebrows twitch the slightest bit he makes a decision.
Carefully, he slides to the side and gently lays Michael’s head down on the couch - it speaks volumes just how ill he is that the transfer doesn’t seem to stir him in the slightest. After making sure the blanket is nicely tucked around his shoulders, Dennis hurries to the foyer and opens the door. And blinks.
Jack Abbot blinks right back at him. Dennis wonders if his own expression mirrors his surprise. “Whitaker.”
“Doctor Abbot.” Dennis feels his cheeks warm, but refuses to shrink or look awkward. Well, not too awkward at least. Tries to act like he belongs here, like it’s a perfectly natural thing for him to be opening this door for visitors. He rests his forearm on the doorway to lean nonchalantly, then quickly straightens and rather crosses his arms when it makes him feel like a total douche. Nailed it. “What, um, are you doing here?”
“I’d ask you the same question, but I think we’ve got the same answer,” Abbot grins lightly, putting his hands in his pockets. He’s got a takeout bag around his wrist, bumping his thigh. “How’s the patient?”
“He’s doing alright. Well, really sick, but. Managing.” Dennis rubs the back of his neck, glances behind himself, then back up at Abbot. “He’s sleeping right now, but - you can come in if you want?”
“Nah, don’t worry about it. Can’t stay long anyways, I was just dropping off some takeout before work.” He offers Dennis the bag - he takes it, feeling a quite hefty styrofoam box inside.
“I’ll pass it on to him,” Dennis promises, a smile tugging on his lips. It’s - nice to know that if he hadn’t come by, someone else would have thought to check on Michael. The man has more people in his corner than he thinks.
Abbot reaches out - pats him hard on the shoulder. “Good man,” he says and with a parting nod heads down the steps and down the street - a familiar direction, heading towards PTMC.
“I am a pretty good man,” Dennis mumbles to himself, a little shyly, then shuts the door with a soft click.
-
It takes Robby the better part of the week to recover from the flu, even with the expert care he receives.
Dennis, to Robby’s utter amazement and slight bafflement, remains healthy as a horse the entirety of the winter.