"Dan," Phil called through the crack underneath Dan's bedroom door. "We're going to run out of time!" He already had his shoes and coat on, while Dan hadn't yet emerged from his bedroom for the morning.
"If you must know, I'm trying to wrap your Christmas present," came Dan's muffled voice, sounding put-off.
Phil raised his eyebrows. "When did you manage to get me a Christmas present?" Phil had barely let Dan out of his sight since they had come home from the hospital a week and a half ago.
"That's not important," came the reply. "What's important is that I get it done before we leave, because I know I won't want to do it when we get home."
Phil knew what Dan was talking about. They were headed to the outpatient infusion center at the hospital for Dan's chemotherapy. He got his chemo twice a week, starting early in the morning and lasting until lunch time, and he was always pretty sick for a day or two afterwards.
Dan and Phil had formed a sort of ritual around the appointments: whenever Dan finished his infusion, usually around noon, he and Phil would stop for lunch and ice cream on their way home. Dan liked this for two reasons. The first was that throwing up hurt less when there was food in his stomach (especially really good food), and the second was that he could eat as much as he wanted without having to worry about gaining weight since it wouldn't stay in his system long enough to be fully digested.
Once the lunch and ice cream portion of the ritual was accomplished, Dan and Phil would head back to the house, where Dan would retreat immediately to his bed and sleep like a rock until his stomach startled him awake and sent him running to the toilet, where he would then spend the rest of the night curled up on the tile floor with his duvet and his laptop.
Phil's part in this whole ritual was mostly moral support and tea making. Dan never really drank more than a couple of sips of the tea, but Phil always made it anyway, driven by the need to feel helpful in a situation that couldn't really be helped. The doctors had told them that the side effects would be less and less as the time went by, but apparently not enough time had passed yet because Dan was still pretty miserable most of the time.
And this day was no different—except that it was. This day was Christmas Eve. Dan wasn't actually due for his treatment until Christmas Day, but the infusion center was closed for the holiday and Dan's appointment couldn't be delayed.
Christmas was Phil's favorite time of year, but this year things just didn't feel the same. Normally he and Dan would be travelling, visiting friends and family, running around town, filming special Christmassy videos for their channel. But this year they spent much of their time close to home, since when Dan wasn't riddled with nausea he was achy, tired, and weak.
But despite the unfortunate circumstances, Phil still made every effort to make it feel like Christmas. He'd made Christmas cookies and hot cocoa on the days when Dan was feeling up to eating, and he'd even managed to rope Dan into helping him set up and decorate their Christmas tree.
This morning Phil was happy to find Dan wrapping Christmas gifts. Phil's biggest worry through all of this was that Dan would become depressed and lose his quintessential Dan-ness, but the fact that he still had a touch of holiday spirit came as quite a relief to Phil. As such, Phil didn't rush his roommate. They could be late to the appointment just this one time.
Phil had already called in advance to say they wouldn't make it to the Christmas Eve party that they'd been looking forward to for weeks with their closest friends. He'd considered settling Dan into his bathroom-floor duvet fort and then heading off to the party by himself, but half the fun of parties was sitting in the corner with Dan eating all the snacks. No way was Phil going by himself.
Once they arrived at the hospital, it didn't take long to get Dan checked in. Today he had to have some blood drawn before the nurse could start the infusion, just to make sure that Dan's blood counts weren't dropping too low to continue the treatment. They'd been warned that if his counts dropped too low or too fast, they'd have to pause for a bit to let his body recover.
But so far Dan's counts had been dropping only as low as could be expected as a normal side effect of the chemo. Once the results were back and he was cleared to start the infusion, the nurse hooked up some fluids to the port that he'd had embedded in his chest before leaving the hospital after he was first diagnosed. She also gave him a pre-emptive shot of nausea medicine before going to get the chemo drugs ready. The clinic wasn't crowded today, so Phil helped himself to the empty recliner next to Dan's.
The two usually spent the majority of the time in silence, browsing the internet on their phones or flipping through the TV channels—not that there was ever much of anything good showing on weekday midmornings.
Once the infusion was over and Dan had been cleared to leave, he and Phil headed out into the winter air. It most definitely looked like snow was in store, judging by the thick white sky and the bitter wind. A white Christmas would be beyond perfect, Phil thought.
"Are you warm enough?" he asked as Dan zipped his parka all the way up to his nose.
"For now," came the muffled reply.
"Well let's get inside quick, then," Phil suggested. "Anyway, I'm starving."
The two decided on a nearby sandwich shop; this way they could get their lunch and ice cream all in one spot, and hopefully make it home before Dan froze to death. His lower blood counts combined with all the weight he'd lost since he first fell sick made it so that he couldn't tolerate the cold very well.
After they'd eaten and made their way home, Dan retired to his bedroom and Phil set to work wrapping the gift he'd gotten his roommate—a knit cap adorned with colorful fair-isle type llama designs. Dan had decided to bite the bullet and shave his head earlier that week, and so far he only had one tired old hat that he would wear to cover his head. Phil thought he could use another, and the llamas were just the icing on the cake.
Dan never ever took off his hat, not even when they were at home. Phil still hadn't actually seen Dan's bald head. He couldn't imagine what his friend could possibly look like without the hair that had been such a big part of his persona. He didn't really want to find out, to be honest. Maybe that was an insensitive thought to have, but the truth was that Phil would be just as happy to never know.
He sighed, leaning back onto the chilly floor and scooting himself underneath the Christmas tree. As a child, one of his favorite Christmas memories was lying underneath the tree and staring up through the branches at all the glimmering lights and colorful baubles. When he was very small, he'd often fall asleep there, completely hidden, sending his mother searching through the house for her missing child.
Now it was all he could do to shove his lanky self under there, his legs sticking out into the middle of the living room. But he was still just as mesmerized by the lights and colors as he had always been.
Phil lingered there for a long while, drifting in and out of his thoughts until the floor grew too cold and hard against his back, causing him to relocate. He still had some time before he anticipated Dan waking up, so he decided to straighten up the kitchen like a good roommate.
Just as he was finishing up, he heard the patter of urgent footsteps down the hall, followed by the slamming of the bathroom door. Right on time, he thought, noting that it was just past seven in the evening. Dan had slept for several hours, and now it was time for him to build his nest on the bathroom floor where he would spend the rest of the night.
Phil put the kettle on to boil, dutifully carrying out his part of their ritual—a ritual created just as much for Phil's peace of mind as for Dan's comfort. He carefully prepared two cups of tea, adding a splash of milk to his own but leaving Dan's plain for his sensitive stomach, and carried them down to the bathroom.
"Dan?" Phil called softly, using his toe to knock on the door. He was met with the sound of the toilet flushing, followed by the door creaking open to reveal a pale, sweaty-looking Dan.
"Thanks, Phil," he mumbled, cupping his mug in two hands to savor its warmth.
"You should sit down," Phil directed, "while I go get the duvet." He hurried down the hall into Dan's bedroom, tugging the duvet and pillows off the bed, and returned to the bathroom to settle Dan in.
Once Dan was all comfy and warm, Phil decided to go fetch his own blanket and join his friend for a while. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and Phil imagined that Dan didn't want to be alone any more than he did.
By the time Phil returned to the bathroom, however, Dan had unwrapped himself from the nest Phil had created and was hunched once more over the toilet, forehead resting on his arm as he coughed and spat. Phil dropped to his knees beside Dan and began to rub circles into his back, feeling Dan's muscles taut under his hand.
Phil was no longer squeamish about vomit—it barely even registered in his mind at all anymore now that it was such a common occurrence in their lives. He no longer had to worry about his own stomach joining the party, and as such he could focus on comforting Dan during these moments of sickness.
When Dan finally finished and sank back into his pillows and blankets, Phil settled in beside him. "I've brought something else," he announced, producing a book of Christmas stories that he'd been given by his grandmother many years ago.
"Phil," Dan said, giving Phil his classic I'm not a child look.
But Phil persisted. "Please let me read you one," he begged. "It's Christmas."
"Not yet it's not," Dan retorted.
Phil said nothing; he met Dan's stubborn gaze with a forced pout and puppy dog eyes—something that almost always got Phil his way.
Dan sighed dramatically. "Fine."
"Yay!" Phil cried gleefully, flipping through the pages of the book until he landed on his favorite story.
Phil pulled the blankets up over his legs, took a sip of tea, and cleared his throat. "There was once a shoemaker, who worked very hard and was very honest, but still he could not earn enough to live upon; and at last all he had in the world was gone, save just leather enough to make one pair of shoes…"