Work Text:
The week before they’re due to leave for Kallista and Caleb’s wedding in Atlanta, Eric comes down with a nasty summer cold. It starts with watery eyes and sneezing fits that he chalks up to allergies at first, but then he can’t get warm and before his lunch break at the bakery Jared, his supervisor, hands him a pack of tissues and some hand sanitizer and sends him, in the kindest way possible, home for the day.
“We can’t have you working in the kitchen while you’re sick, Eric,” he says. “Go home, rest up, and we’ll see you on Monday.”
Eric sighs. “Okay.”
He hates being sick. It makes him feel so useless. And it makes everything on his already-long “to do” list feel that much more vital and yet impossible to complete.
It’s Friday which means he’s driving down to Rhode Island for the weekend. His car is parked a five minute walk away from the bakery, by the Goodwill, and he reluctantly admits to himself that Jared was right because by the time he reaches the Camry his legs feel slightly shaky and his skin is beginning to prickle all over.
At least at quarter past ten on a Friday morning the traffic in Roxbury is light. He’s even ahead of the Cape traffic on I-93 and manages to hit Pawtucket just before noon. But as he drives the last few miles from the freeway to Jack’s apartment he’s aware that even through his sunglasses, sunlight hurts. Everything hurts.
He parks the car in his space next to Jack’s in the lot and takes the elevator up to the second floor despite the fact it’s only one flight of stairs because his suitcase feels like it weighs fifty pounds and he can’t bring himself to care.
When he gets off the elevator at the second floor Meghan -- the woman who lives down at the other end of the hall -- is standing there with her Pomeranian, Latte, under one arm. He musters up just enough energy to smile in response to her “Hey Eric” before she steps onto the elevator and he continues on down the hall, fumbling for his keys in the bottom of his messenger bag.
“Hey,” Jack says in surprise when Eric opens the front door. He turns around in his desk chair, “You’re home early?”
Eric sneezes.
“Jared sent me home,” he said. “I’m getting a cold.” He sneezes again and reaches for the box of tissues on the kitchen counter between dumping his bags and toeing out of his sneakers.
“It sounds to me like you have a cold,” Jack observes. Eric glares at him through slightly watery eyes. Jack has no right to be amused.
"Ugh,” he says, crossing into the living room where he collapses onto the couch. Maybe he’ll just stay here all weekend. The couch is comfortable. There are pillows. And Jack’s been working on his digital design assignment for the summer class he’s taking at RISD so the shades are pulled down over the big picture windows to cut the glare on the computer screen.
He closes his eyes.
He hears Jack push his chair back -- wood scraping against wood on the polished floorboards -- and the sounds of Jack rummaging around in the kitchen. The fridge being opened and shut. The hum of the icemaker in the door of the fridge.
“Here,” Jack nudges Eric’s knee with his own calf. Eric reluctantly opens his eyes and sees Jack is holding out a glass of juice -- probably the remains of the pineapple Eric had bought for that upside-down cake last Saturday. “You need to keep drinking fluids.”
“Ugh,” Eric says again. “I hate feeling like this.”
Jack puts the juice glass on the coffee table and reaches out to brush the back of his hand across Eric’s forehead. “Well, you don’t feel feverish.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Hey,” Jack says, softly, ignoring Eric’s complaints and leaning in to press a kiss against Eric’s forehead where his hand had just been. “Welcome home. It’s good to have you back for another weekend.” It’s been a good summer, so far, but they’re both busy and it’s been harder than Eric anticipated having this every weekend and then going back up to Boston to crash on Lardo’s futon. Not that he’s regretting the internship. But it’s hard to be here and call it home only to go away again. Maybe he should try just driving up from Pawtucket every day. He’d be on the road before the traffic got heavy in the morning, and be able to leave on the early side of the evening commute.
The thought of driving makes his head pulse and he winces. “I should probably shower,” he says, leaning forward gingerly to reach for the juice. He swallows half of it down. It is the pineapple. Jack’s probably been living off leftovers and protein shakes since Sunday.
“I was gonna make a smoothie for lunch,” Jack says, as if echoing Eric’s thought. “Do you want me to make you one?”
Eric realizes he’s not hungry, but he hasn’t eaten since he got up this morning so skipping lunch is probably a bad idea. “Yeah, okay,” he says, pushing himself to his feet and heading for the bathroom. “I’ll just --” but words are hard and he lets himself trail off without finishing. It’s not like Jack can lose track of him in an 800-square-foot loft.
After lunch, Jack goes back to the computer to finish his mock-ups and Eric curls up in his favorite corner of the couch -- the one that lets him watch Jack at work -- and pretends to read his news feeds for a few minutes before letting his eyes drift shut. Jack’s got one of the playlists Eric made for him streaming low through his speakers -- Eric thinks it’s one of the ones for game days when Jack needs to stay alert without getting wired. They’re all familiar songs and Eric drifts into a state of semi-consciousness where his head doesn’t hurt quite as much and he’s cocooned in a comforting shell of his own favorite music and the small clicks and creaks of Jack at work.
“...Bits?” The early-evening sun is slanting through the gaps where the roll-down shades don’t quite meet. For a half second he’s disoriented, confused as to why Jack is at the Haus since Jack lives in Pawtucket. Then he remembers it’s summer and he’s in Pawtucket. He turns his head to look at the clock Jack’s hung on the wall. It’s already quarter past seven.
He blinks up at Jack. “I slept for, like, six hours and you didn’t wake me up?”
"You needed the sleep,” Jack say. “If you don't sleep your body can't heal."
"Like you ever listen to your body. Stupid body," Eric protests half-heartedly.
"Your body isn't stupid," Jack sighs (indulgently, Eric grumbles to himself). "And no, I don't -- and remember what you say to me when I’m the one who’s sick or injured?" It’s true. Usually it’s Eric who’s practically -- and, to be honest, sometimes actually -- sitting on Jack until he promises to be good and ice his ankle or take his pain meds and go to bed or not go to practice for a day or two until his sinuses clear.
"I was going to make brownies for..." Eric tries to remind him. Jack’s doing a nature photography thing in the morning with Joelle’s summer school kids.
"The brownies can wait, Bitty. Joelle's students will enjoy those brownies whenever you get to them. Are you hungry?"
Eric shakes his head, struggling to sit up, and Jack slips an arm behind his back, pulling him to his feet. “Let’s get you to bed.” Jack steers him toward the bedroom, where Eric realizes Jack’s already pulled down the sheets and turned on the light on his bedside table. Señor Bun is sitting on Bitty’s pillow and Jack must have unpacked Eric’s suitcase because Monsieur Éléphant is propped next to Bun; they’re tilted together like they’re having some sort of serious discussion. Catching up on the gossip of the week, Eric thinks with a slightly hysterical giggle that turns into a cough halfway through.
“Go brush your teeth,” Jack says, “or you’ll regret it in the morning.” Jack must have already done his usual bedtime routine because he’s down to boxers and a t-shirt, and he’s wearing his glasses. He lets go of Eric and turns to rummage for something on the bottom shelf of his bedside table.
"Jack! You shouldn’t sleep in here,” Eric protests. “You'll get sick -- honey, you should sleep on the couch tonight."
"I am not sleeping on the couch,” Jack says, standing back up with a book in hand. “Anyway, we slept together all last weekend. Thoroughly.” Eric blushes, remembering. “I'm already exposed to whatever germs you have.” Eric could fight him -- should fight him. But he doesn’t want to wake up enough to pursue it. So instead he goes into the bathroom and brushes his teeth.
He returns to the bedroom to strip and climb into bed next to Jack, who is already propped up against the headboard with his book in hand. It’s Pigeon Post, Eric realizes. They’d started reading it together at the Cape, back in May, and then let fall by the wayside as Jack’s class began and Eric embarked on his internship. It was a battered green volume -- one of a much-beloved set from Jack’s childhood -- that they had uncovered from the back of a closet while looking for something else. A historical atlas for Cape Cod, Eric remembers, that Jack wanted for a now-forgotten reason and Alicia had sworn they still had somewhere in the cabin. He can’t remember if they ever found it.
He sighs, contented, and settles in under the thin summer sheets. Jack reaches out to pull Eric in close against his shoulder and Eric finally gives himself over to Jack, and the weekend, curling into Jack’s side and feeling the faint vibrations of Jack’s vocal chords under his palm as Jack begins to read: “ ‘If only we’d been doing our own cooking,’ said Susan. But the one thing Mrs. Tyson did not want them to do was cook. She preferred to cook for them, and said so, and, after all, she might very well have Mrs. Blackett she would rather they stayed at home…”
Before too long, he drifts back off to sleep.