tender as hell

It’s the first Friday night that isn’t spent hosting a party or at Malone’s in their time at Briar U.

The air in the living room is stale. It’s warm inside too, and so dry, the hallmark of doors sealed shut to the rest of the world. The living room is a nice change of scenery from his bedroom ceiling, which he’s seen plenty of in the last five days. Garrett feels fuzzy, and all weird, not quite sleep-tired but bone-tired in a way that he can’t seem to reach by napping. 

He’s got his shirt off, and his socks off, he even had his plaid pajama pants off before he decided to enter the common space—he’s hot underneath the skin, sweltering sticky heat.

He’s got a nice tapestry of purple-yellow bruises on the right side of his ribs. He presses the cool metal of his Hydroflask to his torso, because all the ice packs are melted and being hoarded by Logan and his black eye which resembles smudged eyeliner now without all the swelling.

Garrett meets the couch with gratitude, sinking into the worn cushions with a groan. He’s sore all over, through his shoulders and lower back. The thermometer rests hauntingly on the coffee table next to a half empty mug of something dark and an ominous, unraveling roll of paper towels. 

He figures most of the aching is the fever, but he’s sure the residual damage from the game isn’t helping. 

The door to the back patio slides open and Dean saunters in, raggedly coughing into his elbow. Behind him, Tucker slides the door shut, wafting in the ripe tang of marijuana. Dean’s eyes are heavy lidded and red at the corners, useful hints that he’s high as a fucking kite. 

The coughing carries on long enough for Dean to make it to the couch, and snatch up the mug and lift it to his lips. Tucker makes a noise like a squawk and shakes his head violently. 

“Don’t drink that, it’s cold. At least, let me make you a fresh cup of tea.” 

Dean concedes with an huff and settles on the couch, at Garrett’s feet. He lifts his heavy feet and slides beneath them, before placing them back in his lap. Tucker collects the mug and disappears into the kitchen, but Garrett can hear the sound of his distant coughing and then the abrupt shift into nose blowing. The poor guy has been hugging a paper towel roll to his chest all day, and his face is pink and raw to show for it. 

“Are you sure you should be smoking?” Garrett knocks his foot against Dean’s stomach. 

Garrett only ever indulges during off-season. Between the pressure of the school, and his father, it has sucked all the fun out of partying for him. He wants to succeed, not for his father, but for himself. Getting drunk with his friends is a luxury he cannot afford. He needs to be in the best shape of his life. 

He received a text from his father after their match from hell yesterday. All it read was: 

[ 8:22 pm ] Phil

Rest.

Garrett didn’t bother to dignify him with a response, but the comment has been eating at him ever since. 

Especially since he can’t even disobey the order. He doesn’t have energy to do anything but lay on the couch and, case-in-point, rest. 

Dean, blinking in slow motion, seems to register Garrett’s question in even slower motion. He gives a small smile, which quickly turns to a grimace when he clears his throat to speak. 

“D—n’t w’nt to…—kHhm!—…eat. Hurts too much. Tuck said…kFHh!—it might bring b—ck m’ appetite.” 

Whatever cold, or flu they’ve got has hit everyone in their own specific way. 

Garrett’s aching down to the marrow of his bones. Every part of him pulses with a throbbing discomfort, and it makes his skin feel tight and uncomfortable. He can’t keep his eyes open either. Every time he sits down, he seems to be dozing to sleep almost immediately. 

Everything has settled into Dean’s throat. After the game, everyone piled into the upstairs bathroom after the steam cleared from the mirror and shined their phone flashlight into his mouth. His throat is a gnarled, enraged red. The sprinkling white dots lining his tonsils are a familiar sight—tonsillitis—which often accompanies most of his colds, or now, the flu. Violently recurrent and his doctor has been begging him to get them removed. If Dean could just get over his fear of needles, this would be handled already. 

If he had to guess, Tucker is at the mercy of gravity. His ears are tender, and inflamed which has thrown off his entire equilibrium. Garrett has been playing hockey for a long time, and he hasn’t seen someone crash and burn as many times as Tuck did on the ice yesterday. Had he not played alongside him for many years, he might’ve thought it was Tucker’s first time lacing up some skates. He squints at bright lights, winces when sound gets too loud (even his own sneezes, which is maybe the saddest sight Garrett has ever witnessed). It’s like a Sarah McLaughlin puppy commercial, watching Tucker stumble over his own feet as his headache causes the room to tilt and sway and then look down at his own body with betrayal. 

He knows Logan the best, and this is a top contender for the worst shape Garrett has ever seen him in. 

The stairs creak behind the couch and Garrett cranes his neck to see Logan coming down the stairs, dragging sleep along with him. It’s wrapped tightly around him, like a weighted blanket. His hair is air dried and half of his curls stick up, endearingly messy. His t-shirt is wrinkled, creased from his warm sleeping body. He has lost his pants somewhere along the way, but his boxers are wrinkled in the same spot as his shirt. In fact, his cheek is pink with sleep lines on the same side too. 

He stops on the last step, frozen in his pursuit and squints into the distance in front of him. Garrett watches his chest rise and fall, lips agape, eyes fluttering and fluttering. His eyelashes are long, fanning his high cheekbones and it’s such a desperate facial expression that he can’t help but watch in a mix of horror, amusement, and erotic curiosity. 

“S-Shit,” mutters Logan, as he swiftly snatches his grey t-shirt collar over his mouth. 

“hn’kdtschh! iSCHh! kN’tSCHh!”

Here he goes. 

“Nk’tschh! —‘shhh! —shhht!” 

Whatever they had caught had ravaged Logan’s sinuses. Not that it’s particularly difficult, with how sensitive he tended to be. He’s known Logan a long time and a plethora of things make him sneeze: dust, grass, coming into a cold rink from a hot day, when he pulls an all-nighter, alcohol, and above all else, sickness. 

He’s never been the type of guy to sneeze once and be finished like he or Dean or Tucker can. It is always relentless, an entire production and epilogue. He sneezes until he’s gasping for air and still goes back for more. 

It’s impressive. 

Logan makes his way down the rest of the stairs while he’s panting, and only makes it as far as the arm of the couch before he’s twisting his upper body away from the crowd and sneezing loosely towards his hip, hand lingering uselessly a few inches away from his face. 

“kn’TSCHh! Fucki’g Chr—riHhst—tssch! hmp’tssssch! iSCHh’u!”

“God damn,” breathes Garrett. “Bless you.” 

Logan looks out of breath, lips parted and glistening. He takes a huge breath and then blows it out slowly. 

“That’s been happedni’g every few mbinutes since last ndight. I’bm so—snf!—tired.” 

Dean grimaces sympathetically. Logan trudges sadly to the arm chair and drops himself into it heavily. 

“Yikes. I do not envy you.” Garrett reaches over and pats his knee. Logan’s wet sniffle is sad. 

From the kitchen, mugs clink and chime. Garrett isn’t even aware that he’s hearing it until it abruptly pauses. 

“All good in there, Tuck?”

“RRRSHH’OOHh!” 

The sound of dishes clattering into the sink makes such a boisterous crash that everyone jumps. 

“Bless you.” 

Tucker groans loudly. The kitchen faucet switches on. 

“G’bless.” Garrett sits up and tucks himself into the corner of the couch. He pats the cushion next to him and Logan scrambles over to join the fray. 

Tucker enters from the kitchen with a two mugs in each hand and a package of frozen blueberries tucked underneath his armpit. 

He sets a mug in front of each one of them before settling into the cushion on the other side of Dean. Once he’s sat, he passes the packet of frozen fruit to Logan who opens the ziplock and pops a frozen blueberry in his mouth before he seals it shut and presses it to his eye. 

This is it. This is the pitiful motley crew. In his opinion, they’ve either reached a new level or friendship or this is a new low for them and he can’t decide which. Maybe it’s both. 

“hH’ZSSHH’uh!” Garrett doesn’t even feel the sneeze coming before it announces itself. He catches spray all over his chest in surprise, when his head snaps forward suddenly. “Guh, sorry.” 

“Do we have any mbore NdyQuil?” Logan asks. 

Dean reaches into the front pouch of his hoodie and pulls out an empty bottle of NyQuil. 

“No,” he croaks. The empty bottle hits the edge of the coffee table and skids to the floor, landing a few feet in front of them. 

Damn. 

Garrett snuffles a few times, wiping the underside of his nose on his wrist. They desperately need to put in a delivery order for the essentials: cough drops, daytime and nighttime medicine, soup, Liquid IV because he finally used their last packet yesterday evening, and then tissues. 

Garrett fishes his phone out of his pocket, but a quick knock at the front door distracts him from getting his order started. 

Dean groans loudly, which pretty accurately encapsulates the way they all seem to be feeling about getting up and answering the door. Logan finds the solution before the rest of them. 

He twists over the back of the couch, and with the last dredges of his energy, hollers for whoever it is to enter. 

It’s always been an open door policy. (See: They never remember to lock the door.)

“IT’S OPEDN!”

The door creaks open, Allie Hayes steps past the threshold…?

Then, Hannah steps in behind her with grocery bags hanging off each arm. 

Allie steps over the duffel bag of sweaty undergarments like it’s a live bomb. A comical amount of disgust is written across her features, as she steps over Logan’s germ-riddled basketball shorts which are bunched at the base of the steps. She is careful to avoid bumping or brushing anything until she lands in front of the couch. 

She frowns. “Ew.” 

Dean looks like he’s about to crawl into the split between the couch cushions and die. 

Hannah trudges through their den of sickness with familiarity, kicking aside any obstacle in her path and settles beside Allie on the far side of the coffee table. 

“Hannah thinks you all are incapable of taking care of yourselves, and I agree. So, here we are.” 

Allie is a breath of fresh air in the stale room. Tucker laughs a little and Garrett pushes himself up to sit up straighter. He wasn’t expecting to host anyone, but he’s glad to see them here. 

Hannah doesn’t react to the comment though. She studies each of them thoroughly, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. She slowly lowers the bags onto the floor and by the way the weight settles, they sound heavy. 

Her smile slips off of her face. It’s replaced by a slight frown, and a wrinkle between her eyebrows that Garrett loves to kiss away when she’s worried. 

Are they such a sorry sight that it stole her smile in seconds? 

“You guys look…” Hannah hesitates, weighing the outcome of her words. Allie doesn’t care, she rummages around in the grocery bags.

“Bad. They look bad. You’re allowed to say that, Han.” 

“Sick,” she exhales a soft chuckle. “I was going to say ‘sick’.”

Allie gives a noncommittal hum, neither impacted nor impressed. She was right, they did look bad. 

“We thought you guys could use a care package, so we ran to the store on our way over,” says Hannah and grabs a few things from Allie. First, she rips open a three-pack of tissues, and then tosses the box to Logan. The surprise causes him to fumble the cardboard but eventually he catches it. 

Allie retrieves a family size bag of cough drops, cherry-flavored and numbing and tosses them into Dean’s lap. 

Dean loves cherry-flavored medicine. He whines the entire time he has to choke down any other flavor, and Allie’s attention to detail means as much to Garrett as it does to Dean. 

Dean, usually so sharp, struggles to school his expression. His lips part, his eyes widen and shimmer with emotion. Garrett turns his head away to grant them the illusion of privacy. 

Hannah sets up her own pharmacy right in front of their eyes. A packet of decongestants, a brand new bottle of NyQuil, a bottle of Tylenol, a tube of muscle pain reliever, and then a container of Vicks Vapor rub. 

“Wellsy,” Garrett whispers. Hannah shakes her head immediately, dismissing any commentary he has. 

“I couldn’t just sit around knowing you all were so sick, and do nothing.” 

“No, literally.” Allie pauses and gives Garrett a look. She does that a lot these days, like they’re sharing an inside joke. He hasn’t figured out what it means yet. “She almost didn’t sleep last night. It was very cute.”

The final thing Allie pulls out of a grocery bag is a wide paper sack. It’s stapled shut with a receipt in the front, but over the print is a hand-scrawled message ‘Get well soon!’ 

“We picked up a few quarts of tomato soup and grilled cheese from Malone’s. Figured you needed to eat.” 

Hannah ducks into the kitchen briefly and returns with bowls and spoons. 

“This is…exceptionally kind.” Tucker breathes, frozen by the weight of their thoughtfulness. 

Allie extends a parchment wrapped grilled cheese to him, and everyone watches him shudder from the warmth rolling off the sandwich. “I am just starting to like hockey, so if my favorite team died from the flu, I’d be pretty pissed.”

Then she ruffles Tuck’s hair and his smile is almost blinding.

Garrett stands, because he can’t stomach sitting idly by, or being taken care of. He doesn’t know how to accept gentility without a price tag. Not entirely, not yet. He takes the bowls from Hannah, and holds them out while she pours tomato soup into each bowl. 

Dean holds the bowl to his face and inhales the steam, and the sound of him trying to inhale through his nose is suffocating. He tucks into the bowl immediately. He’s been having a hard time swallowing much of anything with his shredded throat, so something liquid and warm is heavenly to him. 

Garrett sets a grilled cheese in front of his and Logan’s seat, and then extends a bowl of soup to Logan. Logan reaches for the bowl, and then hesitates. 

He quickly jerks his hands back, with a desperate shake of his head. His breath snags in rapid staccato, in-in-inhale, and Garrett knows to pull the bowl directly out of his line of fire before he starts sneezing. 

Before Logan can even begin sneezing, Dean slams the bowl onto the coffee table and startles the tickle right out of him. 

“G’nnasnee—zDSSCHHh’yiew!” 

Dean manages to muffle the majority of the sound into the thick sleeve of his hoodie. Allie frowns and rounds the table. She presses her palm to his forehead, and he peeks up at her through his messy fringe, his eyes wide and guilty. Garrett hands Logan his rightful bowl of soup. 

“Next time, just tell me you’re sick,” Allie says. Garrett glances at Hannah, who is grinning again. He wonders if she’s ever seen Allie this soft for someone. By the look on her face, he doesn’t think this is very common. “If you ever do that again, I’ll kick your ass.” 

There she is. 

Dean grimaces. “I kn—w…kHM! I’m s—…” He twists away from her and begins coughing, the deep barking coughs that rattle his frame and tend to wake the entire house. 

Allie coos, brushes his sweaty bangs back from his forehead and kisses this warm temple. “I know you’re sorry. Shh.”

“Sit down.” 

Garrett’s attention is turned back to Hannah, who is glowering up at him sternly. Unfortunately for her, she’s got the widest, sparkliest eyes in the entire world, so she entirely misses intimidating and lands on cute. Garrett bites back a smile. 

“I’bm just helpi’g,” says Garrett, all charm and snot. He sounds so audibly sick, he probably wouldn’t even recognize his own voice on record. 

“You’re swaying,” scolds Hannah. She gently pushes her hand over his marbled canvas of bruising and he can’t stop the sharp hiss of pain from the touch. Her fingers are blessedly cold, which is like a million needles on his tender, feverish skin. It hurts so good. “You’re not in any shape to help. Sit.”

Garrett ducks his head, craving nothing more than the feeling of her lips. He hasn’t kissed her in almost an entire week, in fear of getting her sick. A kiss from her would heal every ache and pain in him now. Instead, she rocks onto the very tips of her toes and kisses the highest point of his cheekbone and then presses their foreheads together. 

Just as Garrett is about to melt into her, mould them into one, she pats his jaw and then motions him away to the couch. Only a few more days and then he can have as many kisses as he wants. 

Dragging his feet, Garrett trudges back to the couch and plops down next to Logan to await being served his portion of soup. Just as Hannah is handing Garrett his bowl and spoon, Logan’s abandoned sneeze returns with a vengeance. 

Logan manages to get his bowl onto the table in time, hitching the entire time. He gets two, three precursors sneezes, desperate chuffs of air that don’t even count as full, real sneezes but warn him of what’s to come. 

He quickly pulls his collar to his mouth. “hH’nGKsh!…’schu! nDT’chu! —SHHht!” 

Allie and Hannah both giggle, but Logan doesn’t lift his head to acknowledge him. 

“Give him a minute,” Tucker instructs, around a mouthful of grilled cheese. 

Dean nods  “It usual—ly goes on f’r…a whi—le.”

“ih’TSCHHh! ihH’KSCHh-! ‘schyu! ‘scHht! —ih’SCHhyu! Done! I’bm done.” 

“You sure?” 

“Ye—ih’SHht!—s. ‘iscHh!” 

“You sure?” 

“I’bm sure ndow.” Logan snatches three tissues from the new box, and tents them over his nose. He blows softly, timid and careful not to aggravate his own nose. 

“Bless you,” Allie giggles again, sounding impressed alongside her amusement. “And I thought I was bad.” 

Hannah freezes, face suddenly flush a rosy pink, darkest at her ears and stretching to her throat. She clears her throat, and side steps the topic entirely. 

Garrett squints at her. 

“Bl—mhn.” Her voice trembles. “H—uh, how about we watch a movie?” 

They decide on Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, as it feels most fitting for the occasion. It takes everyone a minute to get settled, Garrett and Hannah sprawled across the couch, tangled in one another, Hannah tucked to Garrett’s side. Logan sits at the other end of the couch, with a quilt around his shoulders. Dean and Allie settle into the armchair, reclining it as far back as it will go, so there is room for the both of them. Allie wraps her arms around Dean, and Dean wraps his arms around the family size cough drops. 

Tucker sits between Logan’s legs on a worn bean bag, sunken into the malleable folds, swallowed up by the soft material. Together, they look as content as could be. 

Now fed and medicated, the house has settled into a comfortable rhythm that it hasn’t seen for days. 

The opening credits begin to roll, and Garrett shifts beneath Hannah, pushing himself onto his elbow so he can create a fraction of distance. 

“Are you alright?” 

Garrett pulls in a shallow, steely breath. “Yeah, I think I’m going t-tuHh…” He loses his ability to speak, the tickle teetering on the precipice of coming to fruition or disappearing entirely. It’s delicate and precious. He squints at the bright screen in the dark. “hAHh—?!” 

The gasp scrapes at his throat, before it drastically peters off, leaving him wanting and feeling lost. 

Logan snorts. “Bruuutal.” 

Garrett stamps the heel of his foot against his thigh which makes Logan laugh harder. 

He settles back down, muttering an apology for interrupting their comfortable position, wrapping his arms around Hannah. 

The attention returns to the movie, silence settling back over the room. 

Then he sneezes. “H’JYSSSZCHHoo!”

Dean opens his mouth to retort, or maybe even bless him, but his throat has other plans. His voice squeaks, nothing but a strangled noise coming out which devolves into sharp, piercing coughs. 

Logan nudges his socked foot against Tucker. “These guys are a fucking disaster, huh?” 

Tucker’s head lolls to the side, and a stuffy snore is Logan’s only response. He leans down and adjusts Tucker’s blanket so it covers both of his shoulders. 

Garrett pinches away the wetness around his nostrils, and collapses back onto the couch. Hannah takes a moment to settle back against his chest, her blue eyes sparkling with something he can’t name. 

He pushes her hair behind her ear, brushing his thumb along her jaw. Her eyes flutter shut and he tips her head down to kiss her forehead. “Thangk you.”

Her eyes spring open, and she’s smiling again, big and unencumbered. “For what?” 

“Everything.” Maybe if he keeps practicing, like this, he could get used to love. He could learn that love is all it’s cracked up to be, the tangible, breathing thing that’s between them. The gentle touches, the soup, the thoughtfulness of cherry lozenges. That's love. Maybe he could learn that. “For taking care of us.” 

Hannah shakes her head, slowly and fondly like he’s not grasping something. Like there is a point to this all and he isn’t getting it. “You don’t have to thank me. Wanna know why?” 

Garrett smirks. “Why?” 

“Because I loHhve!—oHhh no— eHhpTSCHh’yiew!” 

His sweet, sweet girlfriend, and her bleeding heart. Garrett just might get the opportunity to practice loving her to his fullest potential very, very soon. Her thoughtfulness and bleeding heart have brought her before the jury, calling her immune system into question. 

If it managed to tear through the entire hockey team, then Hannah and the entire theater troupe probably don’t stand a chance. 

Garrett can’t help himself. He barks a laugh, catching Hannah’s face in his hands. 

“God bless you, Wellsy.” Garrett leans in and presses their mouths together, softly humming into the kiss. Her lips are warm and sticky, flavored like cherry cough syrup. “That doesn’t sound so good.” 

When he pulls away, Hannah is blushing like she did when they first met, all those months ago when she was easier to fluster and couldn’t untie her tongue. It’s cute to see again, like being visited by an old friend. 

Hannah frantically shakes her head. “I just sn—uh. It was only a—hm.” She can’t seem to organize her thoughts, stammering awkwardly through her own feelings. It’s very endearing to watch, though Garrett isn’t sure where it’s coming from. “I’m okay.” 

Garrett pecks her lips again. “Yeah?” 

Hannah breaks the kiss to sniffle. She doesn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah.” 

“You’re positive?” 

Hannah drops her head to his shoulder, hiding her face. She makes a frustrated noise, unintelligible but very clear in intention. 

“Ooh, grumble, grumble.” Garrett whispers into her hair. He squeezes his arms around her a little tighter. It’s slow, like learning to ride a bike, practicing this. But the forward momentum will come, and he will adapt, and soon he will know the way she takes her tea or how to massage all the aches and pains from her body too. “I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”