Mirko was sick with the flu.
This was very rare. He took good care of himself, usually, eating good foods and practising regular exercise (including very regular exercise of the more carnal kind with Martín) and took naps in the afternoon. He hadn't gotten sick like this since childhood, he figured. But sick he was- with a headache and a sore throat and a fever that made all his limbs feel too cold and too hot at the same time.
"Oh, there there," Martín said to him, bright-eyed and healthy, smelling like the wind outside. "What are you always saying? Men take care of men."
He brought Mirko painkillers, and a little hand-held bell, and a glass of water with a fizzy vitamin C tablet in it. He took Mirko's temperature, which was an endearing sight for how his tongue caught between his front teeth when he was focusing, how his free hand smoothed the damp skin on Mirko's forehead.
"Only thirty-eight and a half," Martín said. "You'll be fine, I'm sure."
Mirko grumbled, and caught Martín by the waist, pulling him closer to the bed.
"Oh, no way," said Martín, laughing some, and he twisted out of Mirko's grasp with ease. "I'm not going to get sick. You know I'll be utterly pathetic. So ring the bell if you need me- who knows, maybe I'll come dressed as a nurse for you."
Mirko managed to smack Martín's ass before he was completely out of reach, which rewarded him with a sly little smile, and he supposed he didn't really mind being sick.
