Gently, I smoothed down the covers and held his shaking hand. He looked at me with blue eyes, brimming tears threatening to spill over down his pale cheeks. It had now been over a week since he had left his bed.
“I wish I had more time,” he croaked, barely unable to speak.
I kindly kissed his forehead, making soothing noises.
“Did you find my will?” he asked. I nodded a sympathetic yes, eager to allay his concerns.
His gaze swivelled to land on his cycling jersey in the corner. “I’ll never cycle again,” he murmured sadly.
Standing up, I took in the sight of my boyfriend in his bed. Red eyes peered out from a pallid face, his shaking hands clutching at the doona.
“Wa-water,” he begged, coughing and rasping.
I fetched him a cup of water and watched patiently as he swallowed it, grimacing with every drop. I checked his temperature. A barely-elevated 37.1 degrees, which he recoiled at with fright. “It’s getting worse,” he snuffled, shuddering for effect, before pleading, “will you make me some soup?”
Sauntering through to the kitchen, I picked up some paracetamol and Coldral, popping them both into my mouth. My own temperature was 39.8 and I was off to work in an hour, but I supposed I could make him some soup first.
It is after all, the season of Man Flu.