Dance With Me In the Pouring Rain

When I woke up on Monday, I felt like shit. I was feeling a bit ill yesterday, but now I had the full works: pounding headache, scratchy sore throat, stuffy nose and I wouldn't be surprised if I had a temperature either. In short, I felt like I was dying. When I stood up, I felt light-headed and like I was about to throw up, so I quickly crawled back into bed.

Inevitably, Dad stormed in about ten minutes later. "Why aren't you up yet? You’re fifteen, Fletch. I shouldn't have to get you up."

"I'm sick," I rasped, coughing fiercely.

Immediately, his demeanour changed. He was awkward; he didn't know how to deal with sick people. He didn't know how to care.

"Well, then," he said uncomfortably, "just stay in bed and rest."

"I was going to," I whispered, because it hurt too much to do anything else.

"Well, I have to get to work. You should be fine on your own."

"I always am," I whispered, but he'd already closed the door behind him.

Closing my heads, I curled up into a ball. For once, sleep came almost instantly.

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I don't know what woke me up first, my phone going off or my bladder. Hauling myself out of bed, I trudged into the toilet, my head spinning. When I got out, I slid back into bed, grabbing my phone on the way. I had a missed call from Tory.

"Shit," I whispered. I'd just remembered I was supposed to meet her in the park. Coughing, I dialled her number.

"Hey Fletch," Tory greeted me.

"Hi," I rasped.

"Are you okay? You sound awful. I saw your mates in the park and they said you weren't in school." She sounded worried.

"I'm ill," I croaked.

"Oh, poor you," she said sympathetically. "Your dad's looking after you, right?"

"Nope," I replied flatly. "He's at work."

"I'll be right there."

She hung up before I could protest. Not that I was going to; I was too tired for anything, really. I lay back on my pillow and stared at the ceiling, coughing.

Sometime later, the doorbell rang. Reluctantly, I dragged myself out of bed and downstairs. The only reason I didn't stay in bed was because I knew it was Tory. When I opened the door, she was standing there in her pristine uniform, a worried expression on her face.

"Oh, Fletch, you look awful," she said sympathetically.

I coughed. "Thanks."

She cleared her throat. “You’re not, um- you’re not wearing a shirt.”

My eyes widened and I looked down at myself, confirming what she’d said. I cursed myself; it wasn't like I had a nice body or anything. Quite the contrary. I must’ve put her right off. I folded my arms across my chest, trying to cover myself up.

“Nice body,” she commented teasingly, winking at me. My blush deepened. “And I just love the Power Rangers shorts.”

I groaned. “I’m not. Tell me I’m not.”

She grinned. “You are. Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

I suppose I had bigger things to worry about, but I felt so unbelievably embarrassed. Tory had seen me half-naked, wearing only a pair of Power Rangers shorts. I didn't even like the Power Rangers. If it had been Joe, he would have brushed it away with a witty retort. He had the fit body too.

Shaking my head fiercely, I forced myself to stop thinking about my brother. Tory swept inside and I closed the door behind her, trying to keep my balance. I was feeling really light-headed and-

"Whoa, steady," Tory said, grabbing my arm. "Let's get you back in bed."

I didn't protest as she looped an arm around my shoulder and helped me upstairs to my room. As I crawled back into bed, she pulled over my desk chair and sat by my bed. There wasn't much space in my poky, rubbish-dump excuse for a room, but Tory didn't seem to mind.

"Your room really is messy," she observed lightly. Suddenly, her eyes grew serious. "What have you taken?"

I shook my head and sneezed. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" She was incredulous. "No wonder you're so bad. Where do you keep your medicine?"

"Cupboard in the kitchen by the sink," I informed her.

She nodded briskly. "I'll be right back."

"Thank you," I whispered hoarsely, but she didn't hear me. She was already out the door.

She was back almost instantly, clutching the medicine bag in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

"Sit up," she commanded, and I obliged. "I'm going to put some Olbas oil on you to help clear your nasal passages." She took out the little bottle ad squirted it on my shirt. "Now, I know it tastes foul, but you're going to have to drink some of this. It'll help your cough."

She poured some onto a spoon and stuck it in my mouth. I gagged - it really did taste foul - but swallowed it anyway.

"Couldn't I just have a Benylin Cold and Flu thing that does it all in one?" I croaked.

She shook her head pityingly. "I looked, but you didn't have any. Have some paracetamol and drink some water." I dry-swallowed the pill, but it left an awful taste in my mouth so I took the glass and downed it in one gulp. "I'll get you some more. Here's some Strepsils. They're good for your sore throat."

I dredged up a smile. "Thanks for this, Tory. You're like my guardian angel."

She grinned back and ruffled my hair. "Hardly. I'm just doing what your dad should be doing."

"He had to work," I informed her, not really sure why I was defending him.

She nodded, but she didn't look satisfied. "You should rest. You look shattered."

I nodded, closing my eyes. "I feel like death."

Tory chuckled. "Men. You're such wusses. Every time you get so much as the sniffles, you think you're dying." I could tell she was grinning. "Guess we've got a case of man flu."

"Oi!" I protested. "This is hardly the sniffles."

"It's hardly dying either," she retorted. "Relax, Fletch. I'm not teasing you."

I smiled. "You can go, if you want. You've already done more than enough."

"Not a chance," she retorted. "I'm not leaving you to die of man flu."

I laughed, but started having a coughing fit. I felt Tory's soothing hand on my head, stroking my hair, whispering something, and slowly the coughs subsided and I calmed down. She kept stroking my head and soon, I drifted off to sleep.

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I woke up some time later and rolled onto my other side to face Tory.

“Hi,” I croaked.

“Hi,” she replied. “You feeling better?”

I considered. “A little.”

She grinned. “Good.”

I yawned, stretching. “How long have I been asleep for?”

“About an hour,” she replied.

I nodded and closed my eyes again. “Have you been sitting here all this time, watching me?”

I could tell she was smiling. “You make it sound like a bad thing. You’re very interesting, especially when you sleep. You get this bit of drool in the corner of your mouth.” My eyes shot open. “You snore really loudly, too.” My mouth dropped open in protest. “And I swear you farted at least three times.”

I looked at her, my face contorted into an expression of horror. Tory burst out laughing.

“Your face!” she chortled, once she had recovered herself. “Don’t worry. You don’t drool. Or snore. Or fart.” She bit her lip to stop herself from smiling. “Much.”

I scowled at her. “You’re evil, you know that?”

“Uh-huh,” she replied. “Do you need anything?”

“Can I have some water?” I asked.

She nodded. “I’ll be right back.”

Ruffling my hair, she smiled at me and strode out. I sighed and stared up at the ceiling. I hated being sick, but it was worth it to spend time with Tory. At least I didn't have to forge the sick note anymore. I could just get Dad to write one and amend it to include Friday. Sorted.

“Your water, sir,” Tory informed me, striding back in with a glass of water. She presented it to me with a mock-flourish.

I rolled my eyes and drank it more slowly this time. “What would I do without you, Tory?”

“You would die,” she replied confidently.

I raised an eyebrow. “That was sarcasm.”

She mock-glared at me. “You know, you’re lucky you’re incapacitated. Otherwise I would have totally smacked you with something.”

“You can’t do that,” I said smugly. “I’m ill.”

“That’s what I just said,” she pointed out.

“Oh,” I said, realisation dawning. “So that’s what incapacitated means.”

Laughing, Tory sat down in her chair. “You crack me up, Fletch.”

I glanced at the clock. It was past five o'clock. “You know, you’ve been here ages. You should probably go home.”

“Anyone would think you were trying to get rid of me,” she teased.

“It’s not that, I love having you around,” I admitted, blushing under my pallor. “But you’ve done more than enough for me. And it can’t be fun babysitting a sick guy.”

“It is when that sick guy is you, Fletch,” she replied honestly. “Now shut up. Stop telling me to leave because it’s not going to happen.” I shut up, smiling gratefully at her. “Now, are you hungry?”

“A bit,” I admitted.

“You haven’t puke, have you?”

I shook my head, smiling. “I think I’d have noticed a pile of sick lying around.”

She nodded to herself. “Right. I’ll get you some toast. What do you like on your bread?”

I flushed. “Um, peanut butter and jam, please. The jars are in the kitchen somewhere.”

“Really?” she exclaimed. “I love peanut butter and jam sandwiches!”

I gaped at her. “I have never met anyone who thought that peanut butter and jam was anything but a horrific combination.”

“Me neither!” she cried. “Fletch, you are damn near perfect.”

I flushed. “Really?”

“Well,” she grinned mischievously, “near enough. I’ll be back in a second.”

I watched her go, shutting the door gently behind her, thoughts of her swirling in my mind. Tory returned a few minutes later, holding a plate full of toast. I merely raised an eyebrow questioningly as she set it down beside me.

“Don’t worry,” she informed me. “If you can’t eat it all, I’ll take care of it.”

“Of course you will,” I muttered. “You’re so nice, you know that.”

Tory stuck her tongue out at me, sensing the sarcasm. “That’s the thanks I get. Charming.”

“Aw, you know I love you really,” I teased.

She raised an eyebrow. “’Course I do.”

She smiled at me, and I smiled back. Neither of us spoke a word as we ate the toast Tory had made, until her phone went off. I could tell it was hers, because it was emitting Mama by My Chemical Romance.

“Your mum?” I guessed.

She nodded. “Yeah. I have to answer, sorry.” She flicked it open. “Hey Mum. Yeah, I’m at Fletch’s. Yes, we’re alone, but-” she winced. Her mum was clearly unhappy about that. “Mum, just listen. He’s ill. Got a cold or something. I’m looking after him.” She listened for a second, and then sighed. “I know. I’m grateful. I wouldn’t do anything to betray that trust.” She nodded reluctantly. “Okay. I’ll be back in a bit.” she closed her phone and turned to me, looking regretful. “Mum wants me back home.”

I nodded understandingly. “It’s okay.”

She nodded too, and got up. “Right. The cough medicine is by your bed with the Olbas oil and paracetamol. I’m not sure when you can take some more again, but it should be on the packets. You can put Olbas on whenever.”

“Thank you, Nurse Tory,” I teased.

She rolled her eyes. “Get well soon, Fletch.”

She bent down and kissed me softly. Smiling at me, she grabbed her school bag and left. I closed my eyes tiredly, and sleep claimed me.

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Someone shook me awake later, waking me from a very pleasant dream.

“Fletch?” they said gruffly, and I realised it was Dad. “Are you feeling better?”

I opened my eyes reluctantly and nodded. He nodded, satisfied.

“What time is it?” I croaked.

“About eleven,” he informed me. “I just got back.”

I nodded, closing my eyes again. “I hope you had a good day.”

He seemed to hesitate, standing there by my bed.

“Was there anything else?” I asked coolly, looking at him hard.

He shook his head. “No. I’ll leave you to sleep.”

He shut the door quietly behind him and I heard him go into his room. I turned onto my side, clutching my pillow like a safety blanket. But then I remembered the medicine and groaned. Tory’s face appeared in my mind.

“What do you think you’re doing, young man?” the vision of Tory demanded. “Take your medicine right now! It’s like you want to be sick.”

Reluctantly, I got out of bed, feeling the chill of the cold air on my bare skin. I took the foul-tasting cough medicine first, then the paracetamol, then doused myself in Olbas oil. I could barely breathe.

Feeling very marginally better, I got back into bed, cherishing the welcome warmth the blankets provided. I closed my eyes, and my last thought was of Tory, giving up her evening to look after me.