A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who read and reviewed the first chapter! I really wasn't expecting to get such a great response, and I'm thrilled - this was going to be a oneshot, but your reactions to the story have inspired me to write more. There will probably be five or six chapters total. Thanks again! This fandom is tiny and it means a lot to hear from you guys. :)


Kick hardly ever got sick, but whenever he did, his parents were always out of town on pageant business with Brianna. Brad was once tasked with taking care of him, and he always did a horrible job, but now that Brad was off at college, the Buttowskis had to bring in outside help.

"I told you not to hang around in those wet clothes!" Gunther said as soon as he was through Kick's bedroom door. Kick's last stunt had indeed involved water, and he didn't get arrested, but he did stay on the scene signing autographs for an hour at the ravine, and now he felt like hell, his throat a scratchy minefield and his skin feverish and sweaty inside his pajamas. Kick had no problem with pain when it was of the broken bones and bruised ribs variety, but this kind of pain was terrible, because it made him weak and useless, only able to stare blandly at Gunther as he unpacked the bag he'd brought for the weekend. It was mostly full of Kick-related items: cough medicine and cans of chicken soup, a tea pot.

"My parents have all that stuff, you know," Kick said, wincing when the words seemed to scrape against the back of his sore throat. His voice was about three octaves deeper than normal, and he sounded like a sixty-year-old man who smoked three packs a day.

"Whatever your parents have isn't working," Gunther says. "You've been sick for three days! Three, Kick! That's unacceptable. I'm going to make you some soup."

"Did my parents leave already?" Kick asked. He thought he'd heard the car, but in his state of semi-delirium he couldn't be sure. Gunther nodded.

"They told me to tell you goodbye, and that they would have come up but they're running late." Gunther looked like he felt guilty for saying so, as if he was the one who'd abandoned his half-dead son in favor of plastic tiaras. Kick shrugged.

"I'd rather have you here, anyway," he said, thinking out loud. Gunther blushed, and Kick wished he hadn't said that. He was having a hard time controlling what came out of his mouth, from a combination of feverishness and cough syrup.

"You'll see," Gunther said, fumbling through his bag again. "By Sunday morning you'll be feeling much better. Ah, here it is." He stood and held up a can of soup with foreign words written on it. "Mushroom soup from Norway!"

"Of course," Kick said. He coughed into his hand and sunk down lower on his pillows.

"Poor Kick," Gunther said, frowning. "You look – well, you've looked better. But no matter! This stuff is like a miracle drug. My mom gives it to me every time I'm sick. I'll go heat it up for you – be right back!"

He was gone before Kick could work up the energy to tell him that he had no appetite and just wanted to sleep. Kick moaned and rolled onto his side, pulling the blankets up over his ear. Gunther might be a little overenthusiastic, but Kick was glad to have him there, even if things had been kind of weird between them lately. Kick never should have had a conversation with Gunther about his tendency to cuddle him, because there was nothing for Kick to do but give his permission, and now Gunther didn't seem to know when to stop. Not that he ever had, but the whole thing was making Kick wonder if Gunther had – thoughts – about him, which in turn forced him to wonder if all of his thoughts about Gunther were strictly friendly. Kick opened his bleary eyes and surveyed the things Gunther had brought for the weekend. His sleeping bag was not among them. Maybe he would just sleep in Brad's room, or on the couch. Kick was annoyed by the idea that Gunther would leave him alone in here at night, though he was also annoyed by the idea that Gunther might try to climb in bed with him.

"Here you go!" Gunther said when he came bursting back in carrying a tray. There was a steaming bowl of mushroom soup on it, along with a napkin and a glass of what looked like – "Fresh-squeezed orange juice!" Gunther confirmed, handing the glass to Kick. He set the tray across Kick's legs while he drank the juice. Kick gave Gunther a look when as he tucked the napkin into the front of Kick's shirt for him, humming to himself.

"I'm not a complete invalid," Kick said.

"Of course you're not." Gunther patted Kick's head, something that always made him feel about two feet tall, even while seated. "I'll be right back!" Gunther said before Kick could object to his startlingly cheerful demeanor. When Gunther returned, Kick was nearly done with the soup, which was surprisingly good, coating his throat the way the cough syrup did. Gunther was out of breath as he reentered the room, the Buttowskis' ancient living room TV hoisted in his arms.

"Whoa," Kick said. The thing had an elaborate wooden frame and had to weigh at least a hundred pounds. "What are you doing?"

"I thought – you might – like to watch – TV," Gunther said, panting as he set it down and turned it so that it was facing Kick's bed.

"I don't have a cable hookup in here," Kick said. He was starting to worry about Gunther. Something about this whole display was a little bit – manic, even for him.

"We could watch videos!" Gunther said, dashing over to the cabinet that housed Kick's video library. "Some of the old classics, maybe, from when we were kids."

"Take a breath, buddy," Kick said. He pushed the tray away, down toward his knees. "That soup was really good. Do you have more of that?"

"You want another can?" Gunther asked, already dropping down to pull one from his bag.

"No – wait, Gunther, chill. I meant for later. I'm full, actually."

"Then I'll just take this," Gunther said. He grabbed the tray and zipped away with it. Kick felt dizzy just from watching him. Since when was Gunther spry?

The soup's magic had worn off by the time Gunther returned, Kick's throat beginning to feel sandpapery and raw again. Gunther had the solution for this at the ready before Kick could even ask for it: another dose of cough syrup, right on schedule. Kick scowled at Gunther when he held a spoonful of it up to Kick's lips.

"I can do it," Kick said, taking the spoon from him and slurping the medicine off.

"Oh, right, sorry." Gunther laughed nervously and set the cough syrup down on the bedside table. "Do you need anything else? Water? A hot compress? The floor fan?"

"I'm fine," Kick said. He set the spoon on the table beside the cough syrup bottle. "I just want to take a nap. Maybe we could watch some videos first, though. Until I fall asleep."

"Sounds great!" Gunther went to the cabinet and began rooting through the older videos. "Oh, man, there's some great ones in here. Remember the parasail we built?"

"Yep," Kick said. He reached down under the blankets to touch a scar on his thigh from that particular venture. Only then did he consider the fact that he wasn't wearing pants. It had never been a big deal to be undressed in Gunther's presence – before, anyway. Now he felt weird, and looked down at the crumpled pajama pants on the floor. He'd shed them last night when he was coated in sweat.

Gunther started the parasail video, and Kick reclined, preparing to watch himself earn the scar that his fingers were still lingering over. When Gunther turned toward the bed, Kick pulled his hand out from under the blankets, realizing that probably looked pretty weird, his hand moving between his legs. It was the kind of thing he never used to think twice about - before. Thinking about it now, he realized why Gunther was so jumpy and hyperactive. Neither of them really knew how to navigate whatever was changing between them. Kick still wasn't sure if he wanted things to change.

"What are you doing?" he asked when Gunther just stood in the middle of the room looking glum and confused. "Come on." Kick scooted over to make room for Gunther on the pillows he'd propped up against the bed's headboard. Gunther was huge, but Kick was small, and they'd always fit together comfortably on Kick's twin size bed, reading comics or studying blueprints that they'd spread across their knees as they plotted stunts. It helped, of course, that Gunther wasn't shy about physical contact and would sit with Kick between his legs if necessary.

Gunther got into bed with Kick, looking relieved. Kick considered putting his pants back on, but Gunther was on top of the blankets, anyway, and it wasn't like they hadn't seen each other with less clothing hundreds of times. He let Gunther sling a heavy arm around him, and almost as soon as he'd rolled against Gunther and rested his cheek in the crook between Gunther's chest and shoulder, he was asleep. Gunther smelled like freshly squeezed oranges and the Ivory hand soap that Kick's mother used in the kitchen, and Kick could hear his heart beat like a bass line in the background of his dreams, something that seemed to root him on as he sailed through the air and shredded pavement.

He woke up to the sound of static, the video over and Gunther sound asleep behind him, so much of his weight dumped onto Kick that it took some finagling for him to reach the remote control and turn off the TV. Kick had rolled onto his side in his sleep, and Gunther had apparently followed. He was spooned up behind Kick, still on top of the blankets, snoring softly. It had started raining, and Kick watched it wash over the window while he listened to Gunther snore. Everything outside looked like gray slush, and Kick was actually glad to be in here, not out there, which was almost never true. He grabbed Gunther's arm and pulled it across his chest like a blanket.

"Kick," Gunther said, sighing, and Kick turned to him, but he was talking in his sleep, still out cold.

They slept for most of the afternoon, Kick dreaming about biking through jungles, then down the sides of boiling hot volcanoes, confused about why he was wet when he woke up. Gunther was snoring louder now, his leg slung over Kick's hip, and Kick was melting underneath the heat of him, his t-shirt drenched.

"Gunther," he said, elbowing him. "Hey! Wake up." Kick's voice was weaker after sleeping, just a faint scratch that he could barely push out from the back of his throat. Gunther moaned and nuzzled at Kick's neck, his bottom lip wet with drool.

"Dude, I'm serious here!" Kick said, fidgeting with every ounce of strength his sapped body had in it. Gunther jerked in his sleep and finally woke, mumbling drowsily.

"What time is it?" he asked, his face still pressed to the back of Kick's neck and his leg still holding Kick prisoner against the mattress.

"Time for you to get off of me before I die of heat stroke," Kick said. Gunther's shirt was wet when he rolled away, a Kick-shaped print left in the middle.

"Oh – Kick – I'm sorry – Kick!" Gunther's eyes bugged out as he came to completely. "You're drenched! Oh my God! I need to take your temperature!"

"It's just because -" Kick said, but he couldn't manage to say, You were holding onto me. He watches Gunther race for his bag full of sick bed supplies and come up with a thermometer. Kick glowers at Gunther as he sticks the thing in Kick's mouth. He feels miserable, his head throbbing and his skin clammy.

"A hundred and two!" Gunther read when the thermometer had beeped. "Kick! That's bad!"

"I'm fine," Kick said, sweat still dripping down over his eyelashes. "I just need to cool down."

"Kick, I hate to say it," Gunther said. "But I think you need to take your helmet off."

"What! No!" Kick held it on with both hands. "Why?"

"Um, 'cause there's sweat pouring down your face?"

Kick accepted defeat, so hot that he was willing to part with his helmet, though he didn't let it get far. He tucked it under his arm and touched his hair self-consciously. There was nothing special about his hair: it was short, brown, and straight, a little on the thick side. Gunther always got excited about seeing it, for some reason.

"Feel better?" Gunther asked.

"I guess," Kick said, though he did, ten times cooler already.

"Let me see that helmet," Gunther said, holding out his hands. Kick frowned and hugged it to him.

"What for?" he asked.

"I'm not going to hurt it, Kick! I'm just going to clean it for you. It kinda stinks. No offense."

"I can clean it myself," Kick said, hugging it more protectively. "There's a special method."

"Fine." Gunther sighed. "I didn't want to say it, but someone has to. You kinda stink, too, Kick."

"Well, I'm sick!" Kick said, suddenly too acutely aware of his near-death aroma. Gunter was pretty much right.

"Not that I don't like the smell of your sweat!" Gunther said. Kick's eyebrows shot up. "Eh-heh, but this is really a case of too much of a good thing. Do you want me to run you a bath?"

Gunther had a way of phrasing things that sometimes made Kick cringe with embarrassment. He couldn't remember the last time someone ran him a bath. He wasn't the kind of person who got baths run for him.

"I can run – I can fill my own bath," Kick said, but when he tried to get up he found that he lacked the energy to even lift his head off the pillow. He moaned and flopped back down as another wave of uncomfortable heat sunk into his skin. "Just give me a second."

"I've got a better idea," Gunther said. He disappeared, and Kick heard the water running in the hall bathroom. He didn't like the sound of this. When Gunther returned, he had Kick's deodorant, a towel, and a couple of damp washcloths. He set them on the bedside table and, without warning, pulled Kick's sweat-soaked t-shirt off, then stripped the damp sheets away from him.

"Nice undies," Gunther said, and Kick put his hands over himself, flushing. His underwear had little cartoon lightening bolts on them. They were ironically cool, he was sure.

"This is humiliating," Kick said as Gunther rubbed the cool washcloths over him, sopping up his sweat. It felt good, and Kick was momentarily glad for this illness that had shut certain body functions down. Under normal circumstances, being rubbed all over like this might have been a hundred times more embarrassing.

"Don't be a baby," Gunther said. He rolled Kick over onto his stomach, tossing away his drenched pillow. "I'll get you a new pillowcase," he said. "And we should really change your sheets."

"I'll just sweat all over them again," Kick said. "Especially –" He stopped himself from saying it, but Gunther went quiet.

"Especially if I'm there with you," Gunther said. "I know. I'm just making things worse."

"No, you're not." Kick turned his head on the mattress and looked at Gunther. "I've been tossing and turning, but then – just now – I slept better than I have in days."

Gunther perked up, cautiously. He smiled at Kick and resumed cleaning his back. Kick closed his eyes and gave in to how good it felt. Gunther had pulled rose thorns out of his ass, after all. There was no reason for modesty between them.

After Kick had been cleaned as well as possible, Gunther sprayed him with deodorant and helped him into a fresh t-shirt. Kick did feel better, except for the return of the unbearable scratch in his throat. Before he could ask for more cough syrup, Gunther was there with the spoon.

"You rest now," Gunther said, pushing Kick's hair off of his forehead. "I'll go make you some dinner."

"Thanks. And – Gunther?"

"Yeah?"

Kick sighed and held his helmet out. "You can clean her," he said. "I trust you."

"Oh, Kick." Gunther took the helmet from Kick and leaned down to give him a peck on the cheek. Kick, very unfortunately, turned into the kiss and caught it on the lips, only realizing what Gunther was aiming for when it was too late. They stared at each other, Gunther's face still hovering in front of Kick's. He looked stunned, confused, and vaguely alarmed. Kick supposed he looked the same way.

"I'll just get your dinner then!" Gunther said, so loudly that Kick flinched. Then Gunther was gone, racing out the room, and Kick was left helmet-less, a new layer of sweat already beading over his skin.

Alone in the room, Kick stared at the ceiling and tried to figure out what had just happened. Did he kiss Gunther? On purpose? When did he even decide to do that? When it seemed like Gunther was going to do it anyway? Was he just being a good sport? Was he actually, seriously disappointed when Gunther ran away instead of hanging around for more? Kick groaned and rolled over, hiding his face in the pillow.

He must have slept, but when he woke to the sound of a spoon clinking against a bowl, he didn't feel rested. Gunther was back with his tray, stirring something. There was bread that smelled way too fresh – did he bake that himself? Somehow, Kick found this annoying. Like he could really be expected to not kiss Gunther when Gunther was baking freaking bread for him.

"What's that?" Kick asked, in a bad mood now.

"It's a spicy sausage stew – my dad's recipe," Gunther said. "And some sourdough bread, and some more orange juice, and your favorite soda. Well, your second favorite. I thought Cheetah Chug might be a little extreme for the occasion. Or it might react badly with the cough medicine. Anyway: Cherry Coke!"

"Thanks, Gunther," Kick said, his annoyance dissipating as Gunther set the tray in his lap. "Did you want to watch another video?"

"We could do that," Gunther said. "Or!" He whipped a book out from behind his back: Billy Stumps' autobiography. "I could read to you from your favorite book!"

"Yeah." Kick grinned, stirring his soup, which looked kind of amazing, comprising at least seven different components that he could readily identify. "That'd be awesome, Gunther, thanks. This stew smells really spicy."

"It is! I know how you love spicy stuff, and it will help clear up your sinuses." Gunther got the desk chair from the corner of the room and pulled it over to Kick's bed.

"What are you doing?" Kick asked.

"Reading," Gunther said, sitting down and opening the book in his lap.

"No, I mean." Kick stared down the soup, wondering if he was the one being too clingy now. "You could sit in the bed if you want. I mean, if you'd be more comfortable."

"I don't want to crowd you," Gunther said, and Kick heard, I don't want to kiss you. Maybe he was wrong about everything, reading his own weird urges into Gunther's innocently exuberant personality. He ate the soup without really listening to the stories he'd already read a million times anyway, trying to figure out what his urges even were. To kiss Gunther? It seemed so. To have Gunther's oppressive body heat pressed up against him whenever possible? Weirdly, yeah.

After eating, Kick was full and sleepy again, listening to Gunther's voice more than the words he was reading. He tried to figure out where these feelings came from: obviously, Gunther was great, obviously Kick loved him, but that was all friend-related. There had to be something more if Kick was whipping around for a kiss on the lips when Gunther overstepped friendship in his usual Gunther-esque way and tried to plant a friendly one on Kick's cheek. He studied Gunther's face, trying to figure out what had changed. It must have happened when Kick was in juvey, because now Gunther didn't just seem blond, he seemed honey-hued, and now he didn't just have a wide chest that Kick envied, he had an invitingly Gunther-scented chest that Kick wanted for a pillow all the time, even when he wasn't tired.

Kick fell asleep to the sound of Gunther's voice, and when he woke again the room was dark, Gunther nowhere to be found. Kick was alarmed, as if someone had stolen Gunther, and then he heard the distant sound of dishes clinking and water running. Comforted by the thought of Gunther at the sink, wearing Kick's mother's elbow-length, purple dishwashing gloves, Kick dropped to sleep again.

When he woke it was still dark, and a clammy, familiar hand was resting on his forehead. Gunther startled when he saw Kick blinking up at him sleepily, his eyes adjusting to the dark.

"I was just checking to make sure you weren't burning up in here," Gunther said, whispering, as if someone else in the room was asleep and he and Kick were risking waking him. "Go back to sleep, okay?"

"Ngh – no, Gunther, jeez, c'mere."

Delirious, Kick scooted over, making room for Gunther and holding up the blankets. He was so deep in a sleepy place where he wasn't worried about anything that he didn't even consider the fact that Gunther might hesitate or refuse. He did neither; he toed off his Crocs and climbed under the blankets. Kick curled in close to him, breathing in the smell of him, which was a combination of the spicy soup and something else that made Kick smile.

"You drank Cheetah Chug," he said, his eyes closed.

"I wanted to be able to stay up and keep an eye on you," Gunther said, still whispering. Kick cracked his eyes open and moved closer, smiling dopily when Gunther curled his big arm around Kick's shoulders and pulled him to his chest.

"Kick," Gunther said. He looked sad, or scared, and his hand was shaking on Kick's back. "You kissed me."

"I know," Kick said, mumbling, and he promptly fell asleep again, his face pressed to Gunther's neck.

In the morning, Kick wasn't sure which parts of the previous day he'd dreamed and which actually happened. He felt more cognizant than he had in days, and he happily accepted more mushroom soup from Gunther for breakfast, then leftover sausage stew for lunch. By dinner time, he was feeling well enough to get out of bed and sit at the kitchen table, watching Gunther chop vegetables for ratatouille. It was as delicious as the stew had been, and they ate big bowls of it out of their laps on the living room couch, watching a BMX competition on the TV, which Gunther had brought back downstairs.

Kick fell asleep on the couch, on Gunther, his leg thrown across Gunther's lap and his head nestled snugly against Gunther's chest. It was the perfect pillow, and Kick thought about this drowsily when he shifted in his sleep, nuzzling his cheek against Gunther until he was newly comfortable. Gunther was the perfect balance of soft and firm, and his hand felt good at the back of Kick's neck, too, his fingers stroking along Kick's hairline. Thinking of his hair, Kick woke with a start.

"My –" he said, and Gunther shook his head.

"Your helmet's fine," Gunther said. "It's in the kitchen. It's just airing out."

Kick stared at him, blinked, and passed out again, his head dropping back down to Gunther's chest.

He didn't wake up when Gunther carried him to bed. He woke up in bed, made sure Gunther was there beside him – yes, he was – and slept again.

By Sunday, Kick was feeling mostly normal, wearing his helmet again, and he helped Gunther make chocolate chip pancakes. They ate them in front of the TV, watching cartoons, and Gunther wiped melted chocolate from the corner of Kick's lips with his thumb. Kick watched him lick it off, his mouth hanging open and his fork frozen over his plate. Gunther smiled, and Kick wanted to kiss him, but suddenly his parents were at the door, exhaling exhaustedly as they carted Brianna's many accessories inside.

"I won," Brianna announced when she followed them in, hoisting a trophy. She was in her usual post-competition uniform of sweatpants and a t-shirt, her long blond hair pulled up in a messy bun.

"Yay!" Gunther said. "Congratulations!"

"Kick, you look so much better!" his mother said. "Gunther, you must have a healing touch."

Gunther and Kick looked at each other and laughed nervously, blushing. After some brief pleasantries with Kick's parents, Gunther gathered up his stuff and headed for the door. Kick walked him out, feeling weird, like some significant era in his life was ending, though it had barely been three days since Gunther showed up to take care of him.

"Well," Kick said when they were standing on the front stoop. It was a bright fall afternoon, people pruning their rose bushes and raking leaves. "Thanks for – everything. I know it was a pain in the ass."

"No, it wasn't," Gunther said, looking wounded. "Kick, I. You know I would do anything for you."

Kick put his hands in his pockets and waited to know what to do next. He wanted to do what he'd always done, which was dive off a cliff first and figure out what was waiting at the bottom later, and that was when he understood why Gunther backed off after their accidental kiss. Gunther was the one who stood on the sidelines and worried about what would happen if Kick took a risk. I don't know if this is such a good idea, Kick. He needed Kick to be the one who waved away his concerns and blasted off.

"I know," Kick said. "I know you'd do anything." He stood up on his tip-toes, still barely making it to Gunther's lips, but as soon as he grazed them Gunther sucked in his breath and grabbed Kick around his waist, pulling him up higher, his lips opening against Kick's. Neither of them knew how to kiss, though Kick had kissed girls, and for all he knew Gunther had, too. But this was real kissing, something else entirely, because Kick was trying to climb Gunther for more, and Gunther was holding him so tight he couldn't breathe. Gunther's tongue tasted like semi-sweet chocolate chips, and Kick knew his did, too, but there was something else that they tasted on each other that was even better than that, because they were trying to lick it up like they'd be able to keep it forever if they got every drop.

Kick broke away first, afraid his parents or his neighbors would see them. Gunther's eyes were almost unfamiliar when he looked down at Kick after their kiss, grown-up and unafraid, but then he was just Gunther again, blushing hard and smiling nervously.

"Thanks," Kick said, and he felt stupid, like he was thanking Gunther for the kiss, but he'd already thanked him for everything else, so he must have been.

"Anytime, buddy," Gunther said. He kissed Kick's nose and released him, walking backward, smiling wide. "I, uh, I'll call you later, okay?"

"Okay," Kick said, though they almost never talked on the phone, usually used walkie talkies during stunt coordination and just showed up at each other's houses for anything more complicated. Kick waved, the panic of realizing that he was already over the cliff and still not sure what was waiting for him at the bottom jerking through him as Gunther walked away.

Kick went back into the house, freezing in the foyer when he saw Brianna standing there, holding a pint of ice cream and a spoon, her eyes wide.

"Whoa," she said.

"Not a word to Mom and Dad," Kick said, pointing a threatening finger at her. She frowned.

"Why not?" she asked. "They love Gunther. And they, uh. They wouldn't care –"

"This is not a – thing," Kick said, the feverish sweat reappearing inside his clothes, though his fever had broken. "It was just. A weekend. And too much cough medicine. Way too much cough medicine."

"Whatever, Kick," Brianna said, shaking her head. She walked off to the living room, and Kick was left standing in the foyer, imagining all the pointy things that might be waiting for him when he hit the ground.