I Fight Sharks Not For Money, But For Love

Mark hates people being kind to him when he’s feeling bad. It’s part embarrassment, because he obviously hadn’t been hiding things as well as he thought, and part guilt that he’s the one being taken care of instead of doing the caretaking. The feelings surface as irritation.

“‘m fibe,” he manages.

“Yeah,” Petey deadpans. “You look fucking fantastic.”

Mark scowls. He was fine. A little time to himself in the relative peace and quiet of the kitchenette had had him feeling almost back to normal. But now he’s got that thick, heavy feeling at the back of his throat again, sniffing and swallowing to try and clear it but that only makes it worse. He has to cough, which spikes the pain behind his forehead and his cheekbones. The last thing he needs is Petey busting in to run him a cup of water, or tell a joke, or sing that stupid fucking song…

Mark can’t stop coughing, and Petey’s still holding the cup. His hand is big, Mark thinks vaguely, and it’s probably cool, with just that thin layer of plastic separating it from the water. He wonders how it would feel pressed against his forehead, cupping his cheek…

“Kid? Oh fuck, kid, no!”

Marks vision goes grey. He can still hear Petey, but it’s from somewhere above him and a long way away.