I Don't Care If You're Sick

"Vic, did you wash your hands?"

This is one of the most popular phrases that I’ve heard Kellin say since October. Now it’s December, and sicknesses are spreading like wildfire. I’m expecting my boyfriend to just spontaneously combust at some point because of all the germs.

Kellin really hates germs.

"Yeah," I say in response to his question. We’ve just returned from a date at a restaurant, where, I’ll admit, there probably were quite a few germs sneaking around and waiting for their moment to strike. "Did you?"

"Of course I did. I’m not an idiot."

Kellin always gets a little snappy at this time of year—a mixture of the upcoming holiday stress, crazy deadlines at work, and, of course, the increased fear of getting sick. The news about ebola hasn’t really calmed him down, either.

"Hey." I come up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him close to me as we stand in the living room of our house. "It’s okay. I love you." I kiss him on the cheek.

He glances up at me; I can see him visibly starting to relax. “I love you, too.”

—

I make sure to be as clean as possible for Kellin, whose paranoia has not subsided. It’s not much of an issue when we’re together in our house, but when we’re in public, he gets a bit more nervous. That doesn’t mean he can’t be happy or have a good time; he really enjoyed the holiday party hosted by a friend from my work. It just means he’s more particular about things in an effort to not get sick. I mean, it’s sort of inevitable that at least one of us is gong to catch a cold at some point, but I don’t tell him that.

Kellin goes out for a while on Saturday to do both grocery shopping and Christmas shopping. When he comes home, it’s about nine o’clock already. “It’s fucking cold out there,” he declares as he walks in and out, bringing all the bags inside (and refusing to let me help because he doesn’t want me to see what he bought for Christmas). When he finally has everything, he slams the front door shut, tosses his beanie to the floor, and says, “That was a bad idea. I am never going outside again.”

"What happened?" I ask, making sure to stay over in the living room and not look closely at any of the bags.

"So. Many. People." He cringes. "Not fun. They’re everywhere, and they’re sneezing and coughing all over you…they’re like zombies straight out of The Walking Dead. But worse.” He rushes over to the kitchen sink and washes his hands. “It was horrible. I’m sticking to online shopping. Even for groceries. You can’t stop me.”

Just for argument’s sake, I say, “Yes, I can.”

"No, you can’t."

"Yes, I can."

"No, you can’t."

"Yes, I can."

Et cetera.

The rest of the evening goes by in a normal fashion, with us lying together in bed, watching Christmas movies while we fall asleep. It’s all nice and peaceful—that is, until I’m awoken at three in the morning by Kellin coughing his lungs up.

I rub my eyes and glance over at him. “Hey, you okay?”

He’s sitting up, coughing endlessly into his arm. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I’m fi—” But he’s abruptly cut off by another round of coughs.

"You sure?" I ask. His voice sounds unusually raspy.

"Yeah, totally," he gasps out. "Just dehydrated, I think. I need some water."

I start to get out of the bed. “Do you want me to get it for you?”

He swats at me with his hand, crawling out of bed before me and heading into the bathroom. “No, I’m okay. I can do it myself.” He coughs again.

When he comes back out, I tell him, “I think you might be sick.”

"No, I’m not." He sneezes. "Fuck."

"Must’ve been from all that shopping you did today," I say, motioning for him to come back to bed.

"I knew it was a terrible idea,” he groans, covering his face with his hands and flopping onto the bed with a loud sound of distress.

I rest my hand on his forehead. “You feel warm. I’m gonna check your temperature. You might have a fever.” I get up and make my way over to the bathroom.

Kellin groans again, burying his face into his pillow. “Fevers can cause death, y’know.”

"Kellin, it’s flu season. One of us was bound to get sick eventually. It’ll be fine," I reassure him as I dig around for the thermometer.

"But what if I cough so much that I cough up blood or something?"

"I don’t think—"

"Oh my God. What if I start throwing up, too, and then I choke on my own vomit and die? And then you’d be all alone on Christmas and it’d be all my fault—"

"Kellin," I interrupt, popping back out of the bathroom with the thermometer and crawling back into bed with him. "You’re not going to die, okay? I promise. I’ll take care of you."

Kellin turns his head to face me, staring at me for a few seconds. “Thank you,” he says softly, taking a deep breath.

"Anytime, baby." Automatically, I kiss him on the cheek.

He makes a noise of protest. “You’re an idiot!” he squeaks, his voice scratchy. I can hear him laughing a little, though, which immediately turns into another coughing fit. “Why the hell would you kiss me when I’m sick?”

"Because I don’t care." I kiss him again, this time a short peck on his lips, because fuck it—it’s three in the morning, and I really don’t give a shit if I get sick. "And I like kissing you. So I’m going to kiss you."

"You are so stupidly brave," he says, but now he’s got the wide grin on his face that I love so much. "You’re gonna be the death of us both, I swear to God."