Work Text:
Izzy’s sniffling for what feels like the millionth time since he clocked in, scrubbing his nose with the sleeve of his shirt when his boss comes by and says, “Home, Hands.”
“I can make it to close.”
Oluwande is probably the nicest boss Izzy’s ever had, even though this is just a shitty work-study job and he probably doesn’t have to treat student workers like actual people.
“Izzy. C’mon, man, it hurts to look at you. Go home and get some rest, yeah? I’ll clock you out when the shift’s over, don’t worry about it.” Oluwande raises his eyebrows and the teal fang dangly earring he wears in his right earlobe catches the light.
He wants to say something snarky and he’s not even sure why- because this feels so anathema, maybe?- but Izzy’s interrupted by his own sneeze and Oluwande just sighs.
“Rest over the weekend, okay, Izzy? I know midterms are coming up.” Oluwande pats the desk where Izzy swipes ID cards for students coming into the archives section of the library. “We’ll hold down the ship here; don’t worry.”
It’s a testament to how shitty he’s feeling that Izzy lets it go there, just nods and snuffles again into his damp sleeve, feeling the congestion shift around in his head.
At this point, he can’t deny that it sounds a lot better to go meld with his comforter for the weekend, dose himself up on cold medicine and try to convince his sinuses and his throat to stop hurting.
Izzy makes it about as far as the shitty secondhand living room couch of their shitty more-than-secondhand college house.
He’s really meaning to get up, to go rummage around the bathroom cabinet to see if they have any Nyquil left from that time that Ed had the flu, but his throat aches and his eyes feel too hot in his face and he just can’t seem to make it happen.
The next thing he knows is the unmistakable rattle of Ed coming home. Izzy knows that Ed doesn’t mean it, but he’s always loud coming in, keys jangling and heavy Doc Martens stomping up the steps.
“What’s wrong with you?” Ed asks from the doorway, and Izzy just makes a noncommittal noise from the couch.
“Seriously,” Ed continues. “You look like shit.”
Izzy pauses to clear his throat, which hurts more than he’d like to admit.
“Nice of you to notice, Edward ,” he spits, and then turns to face the back of the couch. “Got sent home from work.”
“Mm.” Ed sounds mildly more interested, and Izzy can hear what sounds like Ed sitting down on the ancient leather chair they’d found on the sidewalk during move-out last summer.
Izzy must doze off next, because when he blinks and then sits up what feels like a moment later, Ed’s not on the chair any more. The light in the living room is dim and Izzy can hear Ed laughing from the direction of the kitchen.
An experimental swallow makes Izzy wince and growl out a pained, “Fuck–”
A pain only made worse by the sudden blazing of the overhead light and the appearance of Jack Rackham, Izzy’s least favorite of Ed’s fraternity brothers.
Unfortunately for Izzy, Jack’s not only Ed’s fraternity brother– he’s also Izzy’s ex-fling. Things had ended about as amicably as Izzy expects they could’ve with Jack, but it’s still a little hard to see him, especially when he’s so handsy with Ed.
Ed, the one Izzy’s always really been in love with. Izzy would sink ships for Ed, take a sword to the heart for him– he’d even spend the evening at an impromptu house party including Jack Rackham, even when Izzy’s feeling like death warmed over.
“You look like shit,” Jack tells Izzy, and laughs loudly, hitting Ed on the forearm.
“ I said that too,” Ed sniggers into a mouthful of beer and Izzy just wants to go to bed.
But bed is where Ed is not. Ed’s out here in the too-bright, too-loud living room, and the next thing Izzy knows, Ed’s opening three more beers and cheers-ing them all before taking a gulp.
“Drink up, Iz,” Jack says, noticing that Izzy’s just holding his beer. “Don’t poop the party.” He laughs again and Ed joins in and Izzy’s head hurts almost as much as his throat.
Swallowing is a chore, but he manages.
“See?” Jack claps him on the shoulder and then lets his hand linger there a moment longer, gripping Izzy like he just wants to show that he’s the one in charge of whatever kind of relationship they have now. He’d been the one to stop calling, of course, but they’d never formally broken things off, not really. The last time Izzy’d seen him, he’d tried to bring it up and Jack had just laughed him off, saying that they’d have had to be in a real relationship to break up, and he didn’t see any ring on Izzy’s finger.
“Sure,” Izzy croaks, and Jack’s fingers tighten on Izzy’s shoulder one more time before he lets go.
“Chug!” Jack crows in Ed’s direction, and Izzy watches as he and Ed chug the rest of their beers before racing one another to answer the doorbell, held down just a bit too long for the comfort of Izzy’s stuffy head and ears.
Jesus. More people?
And of course they’re more people from Ed and Jack’s fraternity– a bunch of guys Izzy knows from being Ed’s roommate but doesn’t necessarily want to spend the evening with, especially when he’s already feeling sick.
But Ed’s still out here, dark curly hair scraped back into a ponytail, eyes glimmering. As Izzy watches, Jack drapes an arm possessively around Ed’s shoulders and Izzy’s fingers tighten around his bottle of beer. Ed leans back into the arm and Izzy wants to throw the bottle at Jack’s head.
It’s not enough that Jack had to fuck Izzy over- now he’s going to move in on Izzy’s secret crush.
Something deep down inside reminds Izzy that it’s a lot more than a crush , what he feels for Ed. No mere contagion he’ll get over in a week or so with only lingering symptoms, like whatever had possessed him when he and Jack had hooked up, but rather something that’d written itself into his DNA.
How come to Izzy it feels like Ed’s his missing puzzle piece and to Ed it’s like Izzy’s just some other guy?
***
Izzy makes it another hour into the party, manages a few painful swallows of beer and is halfheartedly watching Fang and Ivan play beer pong with Jack and Ed, slumped back into the couch cushions.
He’s almost certain that he has a fever now- time’s gone all weird and glossy and he doesn’t even realize he’s shivering until he almost drops his mostly-full beer bottle and Fang reaches out to grab it.
“Careful, Izzy,” Ed calls from his end of the sticky beer pong table. “The deposit!”
It’s a running joke between them- there’s no way they’re getting their security deposit back, but it’s something they’ve laughed about many times.
“Shit,” Izzy mutters, clearing his throat. “I should go to bed.” He says it while standing on unsteady feet, trying to stay out of the way of the continuing game.
“Aww, baby’s got a bedtime,” Jack coos, and Izzy breaks into a brief coughing fit that he manages to stop with monumental effort.
“Oh, shit,” Ed says, sounding drunk. “Forgot Izzy was sick. Oops.” He shrugs a shoulder in Izzy’s general direction and Izzy’s heart sinks down to what feels like his lower few ribs. It’d been a stupid fantasy to think that Ed might shut the whole party down and tuck Izzy into bed with hot tea on the nightstand and soft brushes of tattooed fingers against Izzy’s forehead to check his temperature.
Izzy shivers again then, the whole room gone cold despite the heat of a bunch of college frat boys, excited and drunk.
“Night,” he says curtly, and stalks off towards his bedroom. It’s not like he’s going to be able to sleep well anyway, not feeling like death warmed over and with the sounds of drinking games just down the hall.
The best he can hope for is just being in bed- maybe when he wakes up, he’ll feel a little better. Maybe when he wakes up, he won’t have to learn something awful, like that Jack has stayed over in Ed’s bedroom.
Fever rises around him like a miasma and Izzy coughs, deep in his chest. This, this was the shit that got him sent home from work today. He tucks his feet underneath the comforter and closes his eyes.
***
A crashing sound from his bedroom doorway has Izzy’s heart going light-speed, a sick racehorse running for the finish line because that’s all it knows.
“Shit,” the voice says, and it’s just Ed. Ed, drunk and– Izzy squints to see in the dim room– holding something in his hand. At first Izzy thinks that it’s his unfinished beer and it’s some kind of joke, but then Ed fumbles for the bedside light and Izzy can see that it’s a bottle of Nyquil.
“Shit,” Ed says again. “Woke you up.” He blinks at Izzy in that wounded baby cow way he has and Izzy feels a laugh trying to claw its way up his raw throat. Ed’s definitely drunk, but apparently he didn’t forget about Izzy after all.
Izzy doesn’t ask how he was supposed to take the medicine without waking up, but then Ed’s clumsily tugging at Izzy’s shoulders, sitting him up and thrusting a little plastic cup of red liquid into his hand.
“Cheers,” Ed grins, and he stands there over Izzy, watching until Izzy downs the medicine with a raspy groan.
Izzy really does feel awful, so much so that he barely feels himself slide back down into the horizontal plane, eyes pressing closed again.
He doesn’t even register it at first, but then there’s the unmistakable weight of someone on the other side of his mattress, and then Ed’s cold, bony foot pressed up against Izzy’s ankle.
“Where’s Jack?” is all Izzy can manage to exhale, voice a ruined rasp.
“Dunno where he went,” Ed mumbles, snuggling in closer, his hair tickling Izzy’s cheek.
“G’way,” Izzy croaks back, even though it’s the last thing he wants. “M’gonna get you sick, you dickwad.”
Ed exhales, beery breath in Izzy’s face. “Mm,” he murmurs, eyes still shut. “Don’t care. Th’other guys, Jack n’ all, they’re gone already, but Izzy… my Izzy’s always here.”
That’s something Izzy will have to unpack later, but for now, it’s enough just to feel Ed’s arm draped over him, to listen to Ed’s breathing even out into the pattern of sleep.
It’s just because Izzy’s sick, just because he’s the one who’s here- but for Ed, he’ll take it. He’ll always take it.
*****