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John is mostly asleep when Rodney pushes open the front door. There’s a six pack of ginger ale dangling from his fingers, plastic bags looped around his other wrist leaving him with a free hand.
“Stores that are open this late are nightmares,” Rodney says, as soon as he sees John watching him from the couch.
Sitting up and squinting at the clock on the TV, John says, “It’s not even ten.”
“Tell that to the zombie-eyed cashier and flickering fluorescent lights.” Rodney’s tone is snide, but he’s talking fast, riled up and worried like he has been all night.
Upstairs, a toilet flushes.
“Is she—” Rodney starts, sweeping his hand to gesture at the stairs. He stops though, staring at the ginger ale like it’s personally attacked him.
“She’s doing okay,” John says, running a hand through his hair. It’s still damp, sticking up where he’s been lying on it.
“I should—” Rodney gestures again, both arms this time, and disappears upstairs.
John leans back on the couch, running his hands over his face. They still smell faintly of cleaning supplies, despite his long shower. It’s not the worst thing they could smell like after tonight, but still unpleasant.
The toilet flushes again and John doesn’t even need to strain his ears to hear the muffled sounds of Jeannie and Rodney arguing. It might be about the ginger ale, but John isn’t trying very hard to decipher their voices. He’s too exhausted.
He has no idea how parents do this every hour of every day. It’s not that he’s unused to stress or even that he’s never personally taken care of someone in a bad way before—but it feels different now. One evening babysitting a sick kid has completely wiped him out.
They hadn’t even lasted the whole night. Rodney had caved and called Jeannie and Kaleb as soon as Madison started throwing up. Not that John’s ungrateful for the help, but he still thinks they could’ve handled it for another hour on their own—especially since Jeannie and Kaleb had seemed so excited about their tickets to the theater.
“Just a stomach flu, my ass,” Rodney says, stomping back downstairs.
John rolls his head on the back of the couch to watch Rodney disappear into the kitchen, a bag still clutched in his hand.
“They want to wait to see how she is in the morning before they even call the doctor. Did you see how much vomit she produced? That can’t possibly be safe,” Rodney’s saying, not quite shouting, but not keeping his voice down, either.
John had been a lot more up-close and personal with the vomit than Rodney, considering Madison had thrown up all over him and he’d been the one to clean up afterward, but he doesn’t say anything. Rodney knows. He’d been there, too, babbling and coaching and saying comforting things in an increasingly loud voice. John’s mostly proud that Rodney hadn’t panicked, hadn’t gotten Madison more scared and upset than she already was.
“She should be at the hospital,” Rodney says, closer now. John can’t remember closing his eyes.
“Kids get sick.”
Rodney’s standing over him, John doesn’t have to open his eyes to know. He can feel it.
“You sound like Jeannie,” Rodney complains. “I should never let the two of you hang out. It’s dangerous.”
John likes Jeannie, likes the way Rodney goes a little soft around his eyes when he sees them together. “Some of us know how to use our brains,” he murmurs, just for fun.
When Rodney doesn’t respond, John looks up to find Rodney giving him a funny look. “You’re not getting sick, are you?”
That gets Rodney’s attention. “Do I look sick to you? If I start barfing like that you will be driving me to the nearest hospital. I don’t want any of this Rodney gets sick so he can tough it out bullshit when it’s my health on the line.”
“Of course,” John says, shifting over a bit to make more room on the couch. He could argue—ruffle Rodney’s feathers a bit more, but he’s too tired.
Rodney sits down, running his hand over John’s forehead—very subtle—before pulling him over. It’s easy to melt back down, let himself stretch out with his head pillowed on Rodney’s thighs. He could fall asleep like this, his feet dangling over the armrest and everything. He doesn’t even really care if Jeannie and Kaleb find them like this.
“You’re wearing my pants,” Rodney says, snapping John back into consciousness. Rodney’s hand is warm where it’s resting high on his chest, his thumb rubbing little arcs over the base of John’s throat.
John can’t conjure up the energy to speak, so he hums softly in agreement, shifting his legs against the couch a bit to show he’s paying attention. Rodney’s sweats are thick and soft—newer than any pair John owns.
Rodney presses his nails gently into John’s skin. “Oh, excuse me,” he says—and that’s his my life is so hard voice. “I forgot who I was speaking to. If I want real answers, I have to be specific. Why are you wearing my pants?”
“Mine are in the wash,” John manages to say. They’d packed light—a quick visit when their meetings had unexpectedly wrapped up a day early. Kaleb had offered him a pair after showing him to the laundry room, but John had declined. It was too weird wearing someone else’s clothes, especially when Rodney had his sweats shoved into the bottom of his bag.
“What did you think I would be wearing to bed, then?” Rodney whines. His heart isn’t in it, though. He almost sounds amused.
Turning his head, John squints at the boxers peeking out above Rodney’s jeans and then tips his head to raise an eyebrow up at Rodney. “Since when do you wear pants in bed?”
“Tonight might’ve been the night,” Rodney says, running his hand down John’s chest and back up again. “It’s a night of new experiences for me, anyway.”
“Well,” John says, his eyes already closed again, “I’m not waiting for the laundry to be finished before I go to bed, so you’re going to have to live another night in boxers.”
The hand on his chest stills for a moment before Rodney gives him a pat and goes back to rubbing at his clavicle. “As long as you make it up to me.”
All John can muster is another hum, but he lifts his hand to rest over Rodney’s on his chest, lacing their fingers together.