Mirko had barely noticed anything, himself. He had thought it was 'nothing'.
He only understood what had happened in retrospect, realized that the week when every meal tasted dull and the little tickle in the back of his throat wouldn't go away had been more than 'nothing'.
In Martín, it started with a fever.
He was dizzy getting out of bed in the morning, and when Mirko took his temperature he was a little above normal, and though Martín said it was nothing, he looked away when he said it. Mirko knew what thoughts were bubbling under the surface of his mind- they had both seen the news lately. But was it really-? Could it really-? It almost didn't seem possible...
"I feel very strong," Martín told him, shrugging off a hand on his shoulder. "Honestly, it could be anything."
But the next day, Martín failed to wake until noon, and when Mirko touched his skin it felt like his blood was on fire. That was enough to make Mirko want to call someone, but Martín refused, rolling his puffy eyes and shifting on sweat-soaked pillows.
"Oh, don't say such nonsense, Helsinki, I'm fine- and besides, have you forgotten what we are? The Spanish police certainly haven't…"
Mirko agreed, but he did not like how weakly Martín spoke, how it was difficult for him to swallow the pills Mirko brought him, how he did not have the appetite to eat. The fever stayed all day, and all night…
...and Mirko woke in the very early morning to the sound of Martín coughing.
The next day, after a night of only fitful sleep and increasingly violent bouts of coughing, Mirko disobeyed and called the number people were supposed to call for such suspicions from a telephone box down the street. The woman on the other end of the line was informative, but brusque- she told him what he could do, but it didn't sound like he could really do anything, and that was unbearable to him.
"Only bring him to a hospital if he can no longer breathe on his own. There aren't enough beds for every case."
Those words had put a sliver of something very cold indeed into the marrow of Mirko's bones. If someone could no longer breathe on their own, how was that not death? Perhaps it was only a step away from death. And Mirko remembered with sudden, terrible clarity the makeshift hospitals from the war of his youth, the ones he had often helped in, where 'beds' had been little more than mats pressed too close together on a hard floor. Where everyone had breathed the same sour air. Death had walked those 'hospital' aisles with perfect ease.
Mirko returned to the apartment and took stock of their food, and Martín coughed in the other room. When he went to bring him water, Martín was sitting up, his legs dangling over the side of the bed. His eyes had a fever-brightness to them so intense they nearly glowed.
"It must be...don't you think?" Martín asked him, almost coyly, like he was speaking of an unliked dinner guest.
Mirko put the water on the bedside table and moved to kiss Martín's shining forehead for his bravery, but Martín leaned away.
"I don't know," he murmured softly, his voice already ragged around the edges. "Perhaps you shouldn't."
...and wasn't that a terrible thing to hear?
So Mirko went onto the Internet (something he wasn't often inclined to do) and read all of the articles and statistics, on American websites and European websites and the local ones for Argentina, and none of them said anything that reassured him. It was all the same- there was nothing that Mirko could do, even in hospitals there was no cure, only treatment for symptoms- bandaids for bullet holes. And worse- unimaginably worse- people were dying from this, young people, healthy people, fit people with no 'pre-existing conditions'. People like Martín.
Martín could die from this.
He only learned one good thing- living in such close quarters, if Martín had it then he certainly did too. There was no reason to stay away. Thinking this, Mirko turned off the computer and went back into the bedroom to lie down beside Martín, who had fallen back asleep. Every breath scraped something in his chest on the way out.
The next day, Mirko helped Martín shower, since in his weakness he had difficulty standing on his own. Mirko couldn't help but notice how he trembled, how his eyes were rimmed with red but his lips dry and white. How he only breathed high in his chest, and when he started coughing he couldn't stop for far too long.
"Everything fucking hurts," Martín complained quietly. He held one hand out in front of himself while Mirko wrapped him in a towel, as though stunned by his own shaking fingers. "It's like I'm a newborn."
Mirko embraced him from behind and kissed his temple. He didn't have the strength to say anything. There was a terrible fear inside him, and where Martín's blood was boiling his own was cold as ice. For a long time they both sat there, Mirko refusing to let Martín go, as though the strength of his arms could protect him, as though through sheer physical presence Mirko could shield him from any bad fate, any dark spectre. A hand came up and stroked Mirko's cheek lightly, and he realized he was about to cry.
"This isn't any fun for you, is it?" Martín rasped. "Pity. Like this I don't make a very sexy patient."
That night Mirko changed all the sheets and pillows and comforters for freshly cleaned ones, and Martín put on a show of appreciation as he settled in, making a greater effort than before to drink his water and some thin broth. He fell asleep fairly quickly, but Mirko didn't join him- he sat up in bed beside, stroking Martín's damp forehead, brushing away thin strands of brown-blond hair. He listened to every painful inhale.
But eventually, some time in the early morning, Mirko did slip away into sleep, though he only noticed this when he woke the next morning, the little lines of orange light on the bedside clock reading 9:46- later than he had thought. Martín had fallen silent- no, Martín wasn't in the room with him.
Vaguely uneasy, Mirko stood, making his way out of the bedroom on sleep-heavy legs. It wasn't hard to find Martín- he was in the kitchen, drinking a glass of orange juice. Mirko stared at him- it was a bold thought, but even with his messy hair and red cheeks and sweat-stained nightwear, he looked better than he had before.
"Good morning," Martín said. His voice was hoarse, but remarkably strong. "It's a nice day out, don't you think?"
The window behind him was open, letting in a fresh breeze, the scent of a mild rainfall. Mirko crossed the room and lay a hand flat against Martín's forehead- he was warm, but not so terribly warm as before.
The feeling of relief was indescribable.
Martín's recovery from then on was sure and steady. Textbook. His appetite returned, his breathing deepened in his lungs, and his fever petered out. He slept more deeply, more evenly, and before long didn't need any help getting in and out of the shower. He even became restless, as was his nature- after all, they still couldn't leave the apartment for some time, relying on neighbours to bring extra groceries to the front door.
"Were you really worried? You were, weren't you?" Martín chirped coquettishly from where he lay on the couch, poking Mirko's thigh with one slippered foot. His breathing, then, was almost completely regular- the coughing had stopped a few days ago. To respond, Mirko only nodded.
"Ah, well," Martín murmured, turning back to the clementine he was peeling. "I suppose I'm a lucky one...or maybe I'm just not the type to die from diseases."
He frowned for a fraction of a second, and then swung his legs over the side of the couch, patting the space beside him. Mirko took the offer (he always would) and Martín held a freed piece of fruit up to his lips. Another offer accepted. Martín's fingertips lingered against his mouth as he chewed.
"Shouldn't I reward you for your hard work? Since you were so worried…"
The fruit was not the only thing that was sweet.
