Story 21 / Collection 3: Love shenanigans
Feverish lovesick idiots.
Arnold had the vague awareness that he should be out of bed now, but he just could not manage to open his eyes. There was a very persistent heaviness of his head, and he had the feeling he was sweating.
"...Arnold?" He felt a hand pat him gently, and a tentative call of his name in his favourite voice. "Are you awake?"
"Um hmm," he made a noise that sounded like a grumble. The hand slid underneath his bangs and landed on his forehead.
"You're burning!"
There was a small hustle coming from the other side of the bed, ending with the weight of its occupant rolling off, indicating her departure.
After some time—which he had absolutely no idea how long it could have been—he felt Natarle return.
He first heard a small 'beep' sound that he recognized as the thermometer, followed by a long, worried sigh. "Arnold, take some medicine first. Can you sit up for a moment?"
She sat down on his side of the bed and supported him as he pushed himself upright, then handed him some pills and a glass of water that he compliantly took. She then helped him lay back down again, and brushed his fringe aside to stick a cooling pad on his forehead.
"Don't worry, I've already called and told them you can't go in for work today. Just sleep for now. I'm setting alarms for you to take your medicine. I'll leave them here with the water. There's also some food on the table outside."
He reached out for her hand, giving it a light squeeze as he weakly mumbled a thank you. Her smile was warm—he loved it when she smiled like that, too bad he could not enjoy it more under such circumstances.
"I need to go now, I'm running late," she said as she stood up. "Just call me if there's anything you need."
As he drifted back to sleep again, he wondered if he heard wrong. Natarle rarely took personal calls during work; was it just a slip of tongue?
o-o-o
Arnold woke briefly, mostly due to the lethargy in his muscles. He grabbed his phone on the bedside table; it read 09:55. In his grogginess, he briefly considered if it was getting late and he should get out of bed, until he remembered what the time was did not matter one bit because he was sick, and so he dropped his phone back on the table and buried himself under the covers once more.
He was almost asleep again when he heard the buzz of his phone vibrating—it lasted for just a second or two; by the time he had it in his hands, the buzz had already stopped and he saw it was a missed call from Natarle.
It was odd; he wondered if she dialled his number by accident, though that rarely happened. He opened up the messaging app to see an indication that she was typing something. He was not a mind reader, but he knew her well enough to know that she had indeed wanted to call him, and likely changed her mind immediately at the consideration that she might be waking him up from his sleep. It was always small moments like this that Arnold felt he was much loved.
He wanted to wait for her message to come through, but sleep overtook him too quickly.
o-o-o
When he woke again it was to the alarm Natarle had set for 10:30. The phone was next to his hand, having slipped out of his grasp from when he last drifted to sleep, and the first thing he did was open up the message app.
Twelve unread messages from her.
'How are you feeling? Has your fever come down yet?''
'Are you hungry? Don't bother cooking. I can order delivery for you. Just let me know what you want.'
'I'm only checking in on you. You don't have to reply.'
'Remember to drink more water.'
'Please don't go and start doing housework even if you feel better. Just rest.'
'I'll try to come home earlier this evening.'
Arnold could feel his cheek muscles pulling into a ridiculously wide grin as he read through them one by one. If one knew Natarle the way he did, one would also know these were as good as a confession of love.
He typed in his reply, telling her he was feeling better and for her not to worry about him. He proceeded to take his medicine, then got out of bed and headed towards the kitchen.
On the countertop he found a plate wrapped in cling film, containing sandwiches made with slightly burnt bread, overcooked scrambled eggs and charred ham, and a handwritten note sitting next to it.
'I'm sorry this is all I can manage. Call me if you need anything.'
The day was full of surprises. She was a terrible cook, but she tried so hard for him.
The sandwich was dry and over-seasoned and tasted like the best thing he had ever eaten—love was such a magical ingredient.
o-o-o
Arnold took another nap in the afternoon, and woke up with plenty of time and energy to make a simple dinner. His fever was gone and while he still felt slightly tired, it was more from having been sleeping the whole day rather than the fever itself. He sent Natarle a quick message telling her dinner was sorted and just to come home.
He was on the final touches of putting the meal together when he heard the front door opening. It was earlier than he expected, and it seemed she did try to get home as quickly as she could, considering he was not there to pick her up.
Her first reaction was an exclamation of disbelief. "You didn't tell me you were cooking!"
Her tone was one jumble of worry and annoyance and apology, but all he paid attention to was how cute she was when she looked at him with eyes full of regret.
"It's just a very simple meal I whipped together. Nothing that I had to bend backwards to make. Come on, sit down and eat."
She stared at him for a quick second, a little unsure, until he pulled out her chair and made her sit in it.
o-o-o
She stubbornly rejected his help when she washed up the dishes after the meal. She had asked him to sit down somewhere else, but he chose to stand in the corner of the kitchen and wait for her.
"You know," he mused with a mischievous idea of where he wanted this conversation to end—despite his physical discomfort, he was in a great mood. "I'm not sure I've ever seen you get sick."
"I do a good job staying healthy," her response sounded very matter-of-fact as she placed the last plate onto the rack and wiped her hands dry with a towel.
"Have you ever heard of the saying—I can't remember if it was Japanese or British—that idiots don't catch colds?"
It took her a second, but his meaning got through to her and stirred up a tiny outburst. "Are you calling me an idiot!"
He laughed freely while she fumed, pulling onto his shirt as she demanded an apology. When she was close enough he snaked his arms around her waist and held her against himself, sending her an implicative look. "You're forgetting whose fault it was that got me sick in the first place."
Reminding her of the reason for his sickness from the day before was enough to cease her protest. Her face was gradually tinted with pink colour.
He leaned in, eyes suggesting playful extortion. "Compensate me."
She sent him a feeble glare of defiance, but he kissed her anyway. He knew she would not have the heart to refuse him.
o-o-o
Two days later, it was Natarle's turn to come down with a fever.
"You're the idiot," she complained to Arnold.
Side story: The reason is in the rain
If there was one thing Natarle could never get used to about Orb, it was the weather.
She disliked how it was warm for two-thirds of the year and scorching hot for the remainder—her parents had always called her a winter child—but that was not the worst of it.
It was the rain, coming and going like it had the temperament of an untamed animal, and no weather forecast could help them anticipate it with meaningful accuracy.
They were caught in the rain again; it took less than ten seconds to go from drizzles to an outright downpour. They were so close to home, yet had no choice but to make an emergency stop first.
Arnold had grabbed her hand and made a dash for the nearest shelter, but they were already drenched by the time they got underneath the cover of the nearest building.
There were a few other people there hiding from the rain, so they had to stand close, shoulders touching—a little too close out in public space in Natarle's opinion, on top of the fact it was a rather uncomfortable sensation to feel the dampness pressing into their skin. She moved away a little, only to be spun around by Arnold to face him, standing even closer than before.
He started taking off his jacket, and Natarle understood his intentions. "Don't. I'm fine."
"No," he insisted with a bit of urgency and draped the jacket over her regardless.
She protested once more with the knowledge that he had a higher tendency to catch colds than she did. "You'll get sick!"
"Natarle, keep it." It sounded like a decision and not a request, and he was rarely this demanding towards her. He was glancing around warily; he was acting a bit weird and she did not understand why, but she decided to do as told, and tried to put some space between them instead.
It did not go past him unnoticed. He reached an arm around her and pressed her against himself. Heat immediately rose to her face—they were in public!—and her instinctive reaction was to wriggle free, yet his hold was sturdy as a rock. "Don't move."
"But-"
"Trust me," he said with a tone many shades darker than usual. Those were indeed the most effective words, and she did not dare to move again.
They stood like that for a few minutes, and the silence was painfully awkward; she could feel the atmosphere between them had shifted. There was a bit of impatience misting over Arnold's usual steady calmness, and a voice inside Natarle's mind told her this was not the time to be difficult.
As soon as the rain started to die down, he held her by her hand and made a quick indication that they were leaving. She simply nodded and followed his lead.
o-o-o
Once they got back home and settled down, Arnold started sneezing, feeling goosebumps from the sudden change of temperature.
"That's why I told you not to give me your jacket!" Natarle cried aloud, somewhat angry at him as she took his jacket off her shoulders and tried to wrap it back around him. He immediately took a step away from her, and his reaction seemed to shock her.
Arnold was not surprised; this was the exact reverse of what happened just moments before, and he was completely aware how his hypocrisy would confuse her. But he had no choice—he really had been caught between a rock and a hard place.
He did not have the nerve to look at her; even in the periphery of his vision he could see her moving in closer with her fiery glare. His face was also heating up swiftly; he wondered how red it was right now.
"Natarle, do you remember what you're wearing today?"
He did. It was a thin white cotton shirt—one that was now soaked because of the rain.
He tried to stop himself, but his natural impulses got the better of him and his eyes wandered back to her; that was precisely why he made her take his jacket when they were out there, surrounded by strangers.
Once he laid eyes on her, he could not move them away again.
The wet fabric was clinging to her skin, its porcelain colour creeping through the semi-transparent whiteness of the shirt; the flimsy material stuck to her and gave an outline of her collarbone. And if he dared to steer his sight just a little further down…
He caught her eyes widening in realisation, figuring out what the problem was without even needing to look at herself. Her face was beet red now; he imagined the colour of their faces were almost identical.
She backed up in haste—a little too quickly—and slipped on a puddle of water that came off their wet clothes. Thankfully he had good instincts and reached for her in time, pulling her back into the safety of his arms.
The split second he held her, it felt like something in his consciousness ruptured.
He was hyper-focusing on every minute detail of her. Droplets of water coming off her black silken hair and running along her neck. A low warmth radiating off her body, contrasting the cool dampness of her shirt. Her scent of jasmine mixed with the earthiness of fresh rain. Hitched breathing and the rise and fall of her chest against his. All his senses were suddenly very awakened, and very unquenchable.
This was worse than her being naked. It was a crime. It was a trap.
She was a danger to his sanity.
He held her just like that for the longest period of time, struggling to get himself together, until she finally spoke.
"A- Arnold… are you alright?"
Her worried voice came to his ear as a warm whisper—the final push that sent him off the ledge.
He let out a long, heavy sigh of defeat.
She was a woman with no clue, and he was a man with no self-restraint.
"This won't do," his reply sounded like a solemn warning as he reached for her shirt. "I think… you'll need to take this off."
[Prompt title 10: 微熱 / Slight Fever]
Author's note
The prompt said 'slight fever' and I made it a full-blown high fever haha.
The phrase "idiots don't get colds" has Japanese origins, but apparently there's a similar English phrase "too slow to catch a cold".
