When I reentered the drawing room, you stopped short, your hands pausing mid-air, still holding the cutlery you were laying out on the kitchen island. You stared at me, a curious expression on your face.

"Um... what—" I stammered, "what's up?"

You shook your head. "Nothing... uh, you just look different." Self-conscious, I touched my face, and you shook your head again, adding, "you look younger. You look really nice."

You'd always been generous about complimenting my attributes and personality and such, but that was the first time you'd complimented my appearance. My mind blanked except for the sound of you saying "you look really nice" on repeat. I had the vaguest realization that I ought to say 'thank you' yet I couldn't manifest the words.

The microwave dinged then, saving us both from further awkwardness. "Okay!" You rubbed your hands together, bringing the containers out. "I've got some fried rice and like... this stew thing. So, help yourself. I'll just shower and join you in a jiffy."

Even though you said that, I felt weird eating your food, in your house, without you. It felt impolite. Inconsiderate. I didn't have to wait long though, because you returned quickly, dressed in lilac pajamas, a towel slung around your neck, and your hair a polychromatic mess of spikes. You raised one, blue brow at me. "I wanted to wait," I explained.

Touching your palm to the bowls, you frowned. "Lemme reheat these. Won't take too long." While we waited, you turned to me, questioning, "you want your stew in a separate bowl or on top of your rice?"

"I'll have it in a bowl, thanks."

With a nod, you brought the food out of the microwave again and served the rice on two plates. Then you retrieved a bowl from an upper cabinet and ladled some stew in. As you placed everything on the kitchen island, I wheeled closer and realized that I didn't quite reach the countertop. You noticed that as well, and swept your gaze about the living room searchingly. "Here," you said ultimately, heading towards the dark wood tea-table surrounded by a sofa and a set of bean bags. Setting the plates on it, you moved one of the bean bags aside and ushered me over. "We'll eat here."

Gratitude blossomed in me, warm and fuzzy. You were such a perfect host – accommodating, selfless, amiable. You were simply perfect.

Dinner passed in cozy, congenial silence. I helped you clean the table, put away the leftovers, and do the dishes, declining each time you insisted that I rest instead. It was the least I could do, after everything that you had done and continued to do for me. Once we were finished in the kitchen, you set up the sofa for me to sleep on. You shifted the teapoy further away, so my wheelchair had space to move around, and you also brought me a blanket. Each time I thanked you for one thing, you went ahead and did something else to make me even more comfortable. And I couldn't help but wonder why you cared so much? Why were you so kind to me?

The questions lingered long after we bade each other goodnight, long after the nighttime hush blanketed the house, broken only by the storm that still rallied on outside.

My belly was full, my heart content. I had all the comfort a homeless man could ask for, and any other day, I'd have dozed like a rock. However, the rain had meted fair damage; the effects became more and more pronounced with each passing hour. A jackhammer turned up my brain matter, and despite the heater keeping the room toasty, despite the insulated layer covering me, my body decided it was cold. So cold.

I tossed and turned, slipping in and out of fitful sleep. Reality blurred, dreams became delirious, my headache was its own tempest inside my cranium. My limbs were heavy, a weight compressed my ribcage – I was stuck in sludge. No matter how deeply I inhaled, my lungs refused to fill. I wanted to reach up and remove whatever was pressing down on my chest, but the sludge held fast. So, I laid there, phasing between pain and nothingness.

I didn't have it in me to get up, go to you, and ask for medicine. Succumbing to the afflictions, I reassured myself that they couldn't worsen any more. I told myself that it was a slight cold, a little fever, nothing I couldn't handle, even as I had a hard time believing it when my headache flared maliciously.

Through that haze and noise, your voice floated in and wrapped around me. "Viktor... Viktor..." Siren song in squalling seas, I followed, entranced. Your cool hands were gentle, soothing against my forehead and my cheeks. "Oh, my god! You've got a fever." My leaden body was receptive and obedient to your coaxing; you easily pried the blanket from my fingers and yanked it off me. "I've got you, buddy... you're going to..." Much to my dismay, your music faded away.

Cold dampness enveloped my head, alleviating my headache. It receded and returned, colder, damper. Water trickled over my scalp, meandering through my hair like a brook. Light filtered through my lashes, then your serene smile came into focus. You were so close; your flowery perfume tingled my nose. I sank into the cushions in a subtle attempt at distancing us.

Tenderly, you asked, "how are you feeling?" You lifted the wet towel from my forehead and pressed the back of your hand to the side of my face. "Mhmm, much better. You were like a furnace when I first touched you..." I tried to sit and my head immediately protested. "Easy," you murmured, helping me upright.

As my vision swam and the pounding powered on in my temples, I screwed my eyelids shut, groaning. "What happened?"

You shrugged. "Woke up like an hour ago and came here to find you shivering and moaning." My face heated; I broke eye-contact with you. Unaware, you went on, "I knew I had to bring your temperature down and that's what I've been doing..."

Shame brewed in me. Rubbing my face, I began, "I—I'm so sorry. It wasn't my intention to cause you—"

"Viktor, listen," you interrupted, the urgency in your voice stopping me. "You aren't causing any trouble. Trust me. I was kinda expecting this and I was prepared to deal with it."

I glanced at you. "What do you mean?"

"Well, we were absolutely soaked in that storm. You barely had any good winterwear. I don't know how many days a week you eat a proper lunch." You appeared to grow more agitated with each sentence. "And I doubt what I get you for breakfast and dinner are any filling. Not like you'd tell me or ask for more anyway. So, it makes sense that you'd be the one to fall ill—not trying to be crude here."

You were anything but crude...

"Umm..." I didn't know what to say to that.

"Hey, you aren't causing me any trouble," you filled in, reiterating. "Let's get something out of the way first. You can stay until you're better. Now, try to rest and put this in your mouth—" you handed me a thermometer "—I gotta check on the soup."

"Okay." I did as I was told, and seconds later, the device beeped.

"How much is it?" you asked from the kitchen.

"Hundred and one."

"That's not too bad." You came in balancing a bowl and a flask atop a tray. I encircled the bowl in my cupped palms and took it, its heat seeping into me. Placing the tray on the tea-table, you showed me three strips of tablets. "Antipyretic, antacid, and a painkiller. You can eat one of each." Putting them back on the tray, you tapped the flask with a slender index finger, saying, "hot water—drink only this. You can refill from the kettle. So, well..." you cast a glance around "... I have to be at work in an hour. You think you'll be okay?"

I swallowed a spoonful of the creamy, savory mushroom soup and nodded. "Yep. I'll be fine. And this soup is great."

You beamed, as radiant and soulful as a new spring's day; I melted, the last vestige of snow on the pavement. "A few more things," you resumed while I struggled to pay attention to your words and not your lips. "I'm leaving the thermometer here. Please keep track of your temperature and if it climbs to a hundred and three, please, pleasepleaseplease call emergency services. There's soup in a pot in the oven. There are frozen meals and other stuff in the fridge, snacks in the cabinets. Don't hesitate to help yourself to them. Also, the sun is up, so if you want, you can hang out in the balcony." At that point, you realized my bowl was empty and reached for it. "More?"

"Oh! No, no!" I nearly shouted, clutching the bowl to my chest so you couldn't take it. Your wide eyes made me cringe at how loud I'd been. Modulating my tone, I ventured, "I'm good for now. Thank you... I—I can't thank you enough, though... I don't know what I'd have done last night. It's all just..." I didn't like how easily my embarrassment leaked into my voice, or how hard it was to string words together. I felt inept and burdensome, as if I was a child you were forced to babysit for free. "I'm sorry if this is too forward, or too much, but I think something awful would've happened if you hadn't come along," I finally confessed – one weight off my shoulders. "I owe you so much."

Your teeth worried your bottom lip, your fingers picked at the frayed yarn on the sleeve of your sweater. Quietly, you said, "anybody would've done that."

A scoff tore free of me, and I shook my head in denial. "Not anybody would have taken a homeless stranger in."

"You're not a stranger," you argued, conviction clear in your mien now, "you're my friend. Friends help each other. Frankly, I should've done this sooner."

"Solé..." My brain couldn't form coherent thoughts anymore. Dumbfounded by your grace, your heart, your integrity – by you! – it took me a moment too long to realize my jaw was hanging open. I shut my mouth.

Softening, you said, "I'll be late for work... how about we talk this out when you're better?"

I wordlessly agreed, dipping my chin with a sigh. Thereon, I pulled the blanket over my head and pretended to sleep – listening to you hustle-bustle around as you got ready for work was less creepy and impudent than staring. 

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