Donald crossed the campus green, stepping along in time with his music blasting through his ears. Through the corner of his eye, he spied the Bellas—something not unusual, considering it was the tail-end of the mid-terms, and they had a tendency to have breakfast together for anyone with morning papers, and lunch for those with afternoon papers. Lilly said it was for moral support; he thought it was more of to ensure that no one had any real fun until the entire group was done with their papers.
The group seemed more diminished that morning, one or two of them bent over scrawled notebooks, desperately trying to cram more last-minute information in, the others sprawled over the breakfast table in varying degrees of exhaustion, no doubt borne from their late-night celebrations of the end of their mid-terms. He did not, however, see his girlfriend there, her long black curtain of hair missing in spite of her deep and lasting attachment to the group.
"Becca," he says, his dark shadow looming over her slumped figure. "Are you alive?"
"Mmph," comes the answer, as several heads come up to see what he wants.
"Lilly's not here today?"
"She's sick," her head slumped back on to the table. "Luckily, her mid-terms ended yesterday."
He knows that, because his had ended on the same day, and instead of choosing to imbibe an obnoxious amount of alcohol, they had chosen to head down to the pond to feed the ducks, the calm evening culminating into a less-than-calm fight, whereupon she'd grabbed her jacket and stormed off, and he'd gone the other way without looking back.
It was dumb, but it was something that happened often, and usually started out with something small. It would have been worrying, if not for the fact that their spats usually blew over in a day or two, and that it helped them to air any problems or grievances they might have.
With a quick thanks, he turns from the table towards the campus bus stop, a hand reaching out to flag a convenient bus trundling along, the other already texting a friend to cancel plans for the day.
Lilly is an intensively private person, and she does not live on campus. Instead, she lives in an apartment just outside the school, a fact he only knows through copious amounts of wheedling, whining, and needling. He's been there a few times now, the interior messily organised, and perfectly tailored to her personality. There's a vague recollection of how to get there, and he follows it as best as he can, retracing the steps up to the familiar yellow door.
She has numerous flowerpots outside the apartment, some dying, some dead, but most flourishing. She does not believe in the concealment of keys in flowerpots, saying flippantly over her shoulders that it is far too common and clichéd to work anymore. Instead she hides her spare keys in the wallets of her closest friends, and he digs his copy out now, sliding it into the lock.
"Lilly," he calls, his voice echoing slightly through the apartment. "It's me. Donald," he adds, feeling slightly stupid.
He moves down to her room, the door peeking open, and he can see her curled up in her bed, the fan blasting at her while she is tangled up in her comforter. Her arms are wrapped around the soft fur on her teddy, her hair a messy bunch on her pillow. Her eyes blink open, and his form steadies itself in her sight.
"Donnie?" her voice is cracked, and her throat is on fire.
He proffers a glass of water for her and she accepts, pushing herself up to sip at it.
"Why didn't you tell me you were sick?" he half-scolds, as he settles on the side of her bed, her skin burning up. Even before he asks, he knows the answer—she is too independent, too self-sufficient to want to ask for help from anyone around her. She is convinced she can handle anything thrown at her, and if she can't, then it just means she has to train to be better, and bigger than she was before. It's a philosophy he doesn't agree with, but he also finds it difficult to argue with her when she offers to show him just how strong she is.
He spends the rest of the day tidying up around the house while she sleeps, fending off text messages from his friends and the Bellas, and he tries his hand at making porridge for her. It doesn't turn out half bad, and he has a bowl ready for her when she next wakes up at 7 in the evening.
"It's tasteless," she declares stoically, as he spoons the food into her mouth.
"It's your flu," is his first response, and she makes a face at him. She also makes a promise to cook him a proper bowl of porridge when she gets better, and he rolls his eyes at her.
She wakes up again at 11 in the night, and he feeds her her medicine before she rolls back down under the covers, It's barely 5 minutes when she feels something tugging at her comforter, and she opens her eyes to see Donald climbing in next to her, his cool skin pressed flush against hers.
"You're going to get sick," she mumbles, trying to push him out of the bed, away from her.
"Doesn't matter,"
"You're gonna be sick for the first few days of spring break. It does matter,"
"Yeah, but being sick with you, it's not so bad," he says, kissing her full on the lips. "Besides, I'm definitely going to get sick now, so you might as well let me stay,"
She concedes with a grumble, and burrows against him, a sigh of contentment against his chest. She can hear his heart beat in time with hers, and she feels the rumble in him when he speaks.
"I'm sorry about yesterday," he says.
"I'm sorry, too," she replies, eyelids drooping, already being lulled to sleep by sickness and his comforting bulk. The last thing she hears before she falls asleep is a lullaby he strings out for her into the night.
It turns out they're both right. Donald wakes up to an itchy throat and watery eyes, and she lets out an almost triumphant smile when he groans in misery next to her.
"I told you so," she coughs, cuddling her teddy closer to her, her hair tickling his neck and nose.
"Yes," he concedes. "But at least we're sick together."
She recovers first, all smiles and good cheer while he nestles in her comforter and tries to block out the whistling of the birds outside the window. He doesn't once think of the dorm he hasn't returned to in 3 days, and instead concentrates on the tune she hums as she cleans up the mess around the room they have somehow managed to generate.
She makes good her promise and delivers up a bowl of porridge, which tastes much better than whatever he'd made. Lilly also proceeds to make another promise to teach it to him when he gets better.
She refuses, however, to sleep in the same bed as him, instead bringing a spare blanket out to the sofa at night. Having gone through it once is enough, she declares, and even though he moans about it, he much prefers for her to stay away from the sickness too.
It's a week into spring break before he's fully recovered, and they stand in the late afternoon sun pouring through her kitchen windows, airing the laundry of bedspreads and comforter covers that have been washed thoroughly.
"One whole week of spring break gone," Lilly sighs, as she sorts through the damp tangle, searching for her pillow cases.
"Yes, but at least there's 1 more week left," he says cheerfully by his perch on the kitchen counter, his legs swinging as he watches her work.
"And I suppose at least I get to spend it with you," she sighs, her smile hidden as she turns away from him, stringing her pillow case on a bamboo pole.
"At least I get to spend it with you," he agrees.