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Elio rested his head on Oliver’s shoulder, while Oliver flicked through Netflix.
“Well, what do you want to watch?” Oliver asked.
“Don’t mind,” replied Elio.
“Thanks, so helpful,” said Oliver.
“I’m sleepy after the meal, that’s all,” said Elio.
Oliver had taken him out to a fancy restaurant that night, even though they didn’t have anything to celebrate. “Can’t I just celebrate us?” Oliver had said, and Elio had tried to protest and offered to pay for some of it, and God, Oliver, how did you even manage to get a reservation at this place? Oliver had smirked and tapped the side of his nose. There had been oysters, and lobster and a rich chocolate mousse, washed down with a lot of white wine.
Oliver had refused to let Elio pay for any of it, including the cab. “My treat.”
Oliver turned off the TV and slung the remote control on the couch. “Me too,” he said. He didn’t want to admit to Elio that his stomach had started to ache. “Well, it’s 11pm anyway. Shall we just call it a night?”
“Sure,” said Elio.
*
“Will you quit fidgeting?” Elio said.
“Can’t get comfy,” said Oliver. “I’m too hot.”
“Well, perhaps if you stopped moving around so much you’d cool down,” Elio said, rolling over, his back to Oliver. “Go to sleep, or go and sleep on the damn couch if you’re going to keep moving.”
Oliver pushed all of the duvet over to Elio’s side of the bed. He was drenched in sweat. In February. When there was still snow on the ground outside. Oliver heard Elio’s breathing soften and even out. Elio had always been able to just drop off within minutes of getting in bed; It was one of many annoying talents he had. Oliver closed his eyes, and tried to think about slow summer days in northern Italy, the sound of cicadas and the smell of the apricot trees and - no, don’t think about food! His stomach was currently stuck on the spin cycle of a washing machine, churning the food he had eaten. His bowels rumbled, as a wave of pain overwhelmed his stomach.
“Elio, wake up,” Oliver said. “Wake up! I don’t feel good. I don’t feel at all good.”
“Piss off and go to sleep,” Elio mumbled.
“Elio. I’m going to puke. I don’t want to puke on my own.”
Oliver dashed for the bathroom and knelt in front of the toilet. His stomach contracted, and he clung to the porcelain throne as that God-damned expensive dinner made its way back up his throat and into the toilet. His stomach had not even bothered to digest the oysters; they looked exactly the same as they’d looked when he’d swallowed them a few hours earlier.
Elio sat up when he heard retching coming from the bathroom. His stomach was also a little sore; the peppermint tea he’d had when they got home had done little to ease it. He pulled himself out of bed to go to Oliver. God, he was so clingy when he was sick.
“Oliver?”
Oliver was kneeling in front of the toilet, practically hugging it. His face was sheet white and covered in a shiny sheet of sweat, and there was vomit on his chin and somehow his cheeks and his forehead. Elio swallowed down bile and stomach acid that suddenly rose up his throat.
“I’m sick,” Oliver said. “I think it was the oysters? You’ll probably get sick, too, if they were bad.”
“I’ll be fine. I feel fine,” said Elio, putting his hands on his hips.
Oliver leaned over the toilet again, retching. Elio rubbed his back. Once Oliver was certain that he was done, Elio dampened a washcloth and wiped Oliver’s forehead, neck and back. “You’ve got a fever,” he said. “I’m going to get you a glass of water.”
*
Elio clutched his stomach as he walked to the kitchen. He took some deep breaths, hovering over the sink. Once the wave of nausea passed, he filled a glass of water for Oliver and placed the glass on the side. Elio’s stomach took a violent turn and a sour taste filled his mouth. Elio tried to swallow it down.
“Elio, where’s my water?” yelled Oliver.
Elio gagged, stuck his head over the kitchen sink and retched, coughing as his body tried to expel the oysters he’d eaten earlier, along with stomach acid that burned his throat. Elio’s stomach cramped, like his insides were trying to eat themselves, and he gasped for air before more vomit splattered the kitchen sink. Elio whimpered. When he thought he was done, he tried to start cleaning up. He ended up losing more of his dinner in the sink.
*
“Here’s your water,” said Elio. Oliver was sitting on the bed clutching the trash can.
“What took you so long?” said Oliver. “You look awful. Are you sick too?”
“Yeah, I think the oysters were bad,” said Elio.“I need to take a shower.”
“It’s 3am,” said Oliver. “Wait till the morning. Come and cuddle me, and we can be sick and disgusting together.”
“I need one to bring my fever down,” Elio said. He walked backwards out of the bedroom, not wanting Oliver to see the shit stain on his underwear. His body had decided to empty out of both ends as he’d puked into the sink.
Elio threw his underwear on the floor. He’d throw them out once he’d had a shower. He turned on the shower, testing the temperature with his hand, when his stomach lurched once more. He slammed a hand onto his mouth, vomit erupting through his fingers before he’d even managed to get in front of the toilet.
“Elio?” Oliver knocked on the door. “I’m coming in.”
“Don’t,” Elio said, his voice raspy. “I’m disgusting.”
“Honey, we’re both sick and gross right now,” said Oliver. “I’m going to rub your back; you’ve already puked once when I wasn’t there.”
“No, really, don’t,” said Elio. He’d got this all wrong; he should’ve sat on the toilet and puked into the sink next to the toilet. He started sobbing.
Oliver didn’t expect to find Elio naked on the bathroom floor, kneeling in a pool of watery shit, his head over the toilet bowl. There was vomit on the side of the bath, too. Oliver rushed to the sink, unable to hold back the torrent of vomit that the smell had triggered.
“Jesus,” said Oliver. “Well, in a few weeks we’ll be laughing about this, I guess.”
“I just want to die right now,” said Elio.
“OK. I’m done. I think, anyway. Do you think you can manage to get in the shower now? I’ll get a bucket for you in case you need to puke while you’re in the shower, but we need to get you cleaned up. Elio, honey, why are you crying?”
“Because I’m sitting in a puddle of my own shit, I feel absolutely awful, and you’re sick too and everything is awful, Oliver!”
“Oh, I know, my goose,” said Oliver. “It’ll pass, though. Rinse out your mouth and then I’ll hose you down. Next time you’re gonna puke and shit at the same time, though, maybe try and get the shit in the toilet and the puke in a bowl, or the sink or something.”
“I know, I did it wrong,” said Elio. “God, I’m so pathetic.”
“Why do you put yourself down all the time?” said Oliver. “Dude, I need to, you know - can you get your ass in the shower so I can have the toilet?”
*
Over 12 thoroughly miserable hours later, Oliver and Elio were snuggled up on the couch together under a blanket. Elio had fallen asleep on Oliver’s shoulder while they watched RuPaul’s Drag Race All Stars .
They’d spent the whole night fighting for the bathroom. At one point, Oliver had to use the bath as a toilet because Elio was already using it. The funniest moment though, they’d decided, was when Elio puked all over Oliver’s chest and legs when Oliver was on the toilet, while shit literally shot out of Elio coating the sink and floor, which then made Oliver puke (thankfully into a bucket).
Elio stirred and stretched.
“Good nap?” Oliver asked.
“Yeah.”
“Are you feeling up to something light? Maybe Mafalda’s chicken soup?”
“Mmm, I could have some broth I think but nothing else,” said Elio. “What about you?”
“Oh, I could quite happily eat, like, a whole meal,” said Oliver. “But I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ll go and make us some soup.”
“Uh, while you’re in the kitchen could you make me a cup of ginger tea?” Elio asked.
“Of course, honey,” said Oliver. He kissed Elio on the nose. Elio smiled and wrapped the blanket tighter round him, closing his eyes.