Archive of Our Own

It starts with a sneeze.

Nathan jerks awake from a dream about deep sea creatures. He’d dreamt he was a whale, and he’d been at home there, amongst the saline and seaweed. The water had been miserably dark and cold; he’d been traveling at depths where no sunlight could reach. And then, there in front of him, a giant squid. Prey. And then it had sneezed and he was wide awake.

But squids don’t sneeze. At least, not as far as Nathan knows. He wonders if he’d sneezed himself awake, the way his childhood dog had woken itself up with its farts. Good dog. Good dog, best friend. The only other sound he can hear is the freeway traffic a little less than a block away, but that’s a constant. If there aren’t any motorcycles or squealing brakes, he can kind of pretend it’s the ocean. People pay good money to have the ocean waves lull them to sleep, and here he is getting the knock-off version for free.

That dream, he decides, was pretty cool now that he’s thinking about it, and he wants to know what it feels like to fight a giant squid, so he settles back in to see if he can convince his sleep-brain to send him back underwater. He starts to drift.

And then, there, again, is that sneeze. Nothing like the dainty little things one of his old girlfriends used to do, to play up the cuteness factor for attention when all she had was a mild seasonal allergy. No, this is a real, honking, phlegmy, miserable sneeze. And then there’s another. And another.

He really hopes it’s not Murderface, who’d had the flu two months ago and helpfully spread it to all of them, first Skwisgaar, then Pickles, then Nathan, and then even Magnus, who kept his own apartment on the other side of town.The four of them lived on nothing but pizza and two-liter sodas for those two weeks, a sad pile of snot and muscle aches, drawing straws for who had to get up to answer the door when the delivery guy came. Magnus had holed himself away at his place and bitched for days after and no one had written any music the entire time.

If Murderface has the fucking flu again, Nathan is going to mercy-kill him for all their sakes.

He folds the pillow over his head, trying to block out the noise, but then the coughing starts, and, Jesus Christ, it sounds like Murderface is coughing his throat raw. Could be the guy is gonna start coughing up blood, and Nathan’s seen it in movies, but never in real life, and not up close, so it could be kinda cool. Song inspiration, or something.

Oh, he thinks, and he should probably bring the guy a glass of water or something, to be nice. A girlfriend (now an ex, but still, he’d liked her well enough) had told him he had to be nicer if he was going to get anywhere in life, so here he was going to do it. Try it. Being nice.

He rolls his bulk off the couch and groans. His back shouldn’t hurt at 23, not like this. When Magnus had dropped the couch off a week ago, he’d claimed it was “near new” but that’s clearly a lie

They’d hauled it over in a truck Murderface had “borrowed” from his furniture store job because the couch they’d had before that had been a broken shitheep Murderface had salvaged from that same job. The center support piece had been cracked and the couch creaked ominously if you weren’t careful where you settled your weight. By the time they’d gotten rid of it, it nearly kissed the floor when unoccupied, and went full-on make-out with the ratty carpet if you sat on it.

This new one is slightly better, on account of not being actually, literally broken, but it’s still a piece of garbage, and Magnus is lounging around in his apartment with a fancy brand new sofa from some rich artiste girlfriend he’s conned into paying for his bougie tastes. Pretentious asshole. “Oh, you guys are drinking Coors?” he’d say, and then reveal a six-pack of some fancy lager that he refused to share with the rest of them. Or maybe Magnus’ girlfriend had made his new couch herself or something. Nathan doesn’t fucking know. Or care. What he does know is that this couch sucks and he can’t wait for it to be his turn to use the bed again.

But that’s what he gets for sharing a shithole apartment with three other guys: having to take the bed in fucking rotations. (That doesn’t always pan out. Usually it’s Skwisgaar’s bed, for...reasons. At least the guy puts a towel down. Murderface is probably getting phlegm all over the place. And probably with no towel. Gross.)

Nathan shuffles into the kitchen, flipping on the light, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and casting about for a clean cup. The dishes are piling up in the sink, because Pickles hates doing the dishes more than just about anything--his “least favorite chore” he’d told Nathan and Murderface drunkenly one night while the three of them were in the kitchen fake-arguing over who would wash the plates so they’d have something to nuke the pizza rolls on. Murderface had suggested a plastic frisbee for a plate, and they’d tried that, and now there’s plastic melted on the rotator tray, and even though they’d scraped off as much as they could with a butter knife, the microwave makes a weird smell whenever they use it. It mostly doesn’t affect the food, so it’s…it’s fine.

The only clean cup he can find is a dumb novelty beer mug Pickles had stolen from some pirate-themed restaurant he’d worked at for less than a week, and it’s the size of Nathan’s whole fucking head. That’ll give Murderface enough water to get him through the night, probably. He fills it to the brim.

But when he opens the door, mug of lukewarm water in hand, it’s not Murderface scrunched up on the bed, looking sorrier for himself than a dog whose tail just got stepped on. It’s Pickles, self-swaddled in a thin, patchy quilt that Nathan doesn’t recognize, but suspects might be a hand-me-down from Murderface’s grandma.

“Where’s Murderface?” is the first thing out of Nathan’s mouth, and Pickles gives him a sour little look that says, “Oh, that’s who you’re worried about?”

“I mean… fuck. You sound… bad. I thought you were, uh, Murderface. Like, uh, like he had the fuckin’ flu again or something.”

“Jest me,” Pickles chokes out, and his voice sounds like sandpaper on raw meat, sticky and rasped. “Will’s wit’ Mag. One a’ their li’l sleepovers, heh.” Pickles’ single “heh” turns into another coughing fit.

“Uh…” Nathan says, because he doesn’t want to think too hard about what Pickles is implying by “sleepover” (would explain how Magnus got the flu, though) and then he remembers the mug in his hand.

“Water?” he offers, but as he passes it to Pickles’ outstretched hand, he’s not really accounting for the strange balance of this overlarge mug, and he bungles it worse than the fumble that had cost Tampa High their final win of the season.

Now Pickles looks like a dog who’s suffered the indignity of a bath and getting its tail stepped on.

“Fuck,” Nathan says.

There’s a rapidly spreading damp circle on the bed under Pickles. “Uh. Shit. Sorry,” Nathan offers. “Let me get, uh, a towel.” That’s a lot of fucking water, and Nathan thinks maybe he’ll need to find more than one towel.

He ducks out of the bedroom and into the bathroom, and there are three towels hanging. The blue one is Skwisgaar’s, and Nathan knows better than to touch that one, so there’s his, which is really just a beach towel because, fuck it, he’s a big guy and he can’t wrap a normal-size towel around himself, or there’s Pickles’ own towel, which is damp and mildew-stinking and therefore useless. Nathan’s towel it is.

He tromps back to the room, and finds Pickles still sitting, pouting, on the bed, blanket clearly soaked through. The mug is on the floor in its own puddle on the carpet, but that’s fine. The carpet will dry. Nathan kicks some old clothes over it and hopes that’s enough to soak up the mess.

Nathan wordlessly proffers the towel, and Pickles finally sheds the blanket and then he’s there in front of Nathan in his underwear, and Nathan is pretty fuckin’ aware of how little clothing there is between the two of them, because he’s also in nothing but his boxers, because fuck it, it’s hot and sometimes you just want to sleep as close to naked as possible. And, like, casual partial undress is just part of living with each other, seeing each other in pajamas and with just a towel and stuff, but Nathan has also seen Pickles’ midriff in some very sensual magazine photos from the 80s, and he’s never not been able to think of them for at least a moment whenever he sees that stupid fucking treasure trail.

And then Nathan realizes he’s been staring, and Pickles is just kind of looking at him, and his face is all flushed, but that doesn’t mean anything, that’s just whatever cold Pickles has making him fevery.

Pickles snatches the towel from him and pats himself dry, not saying a word. Nathan can’t tell if he’s not talking because his throat sounds like sandpaper given sentience or if he’s not talking because he’s really, really mad. Either way, it sucks. Nathan didn’t mean to spill the cup--he was trying to be nice, and he didn’t even have to do this because, really, Pickles had woken him up. He’s going to have to cross his ex-girlfriend’s advice off the list. Being nice definitely doesn’t pay. It makes shit awkward and now he’s got a sick, churlish Pickles to contend with.

Pickles mashes the towel into the bedspread, and then the mattress, trying to soak up the additional water. It doesn’t do much good. Finally, he gives up and shoves the towel back at Nathan. “Thenks,” he says. He sounds like a frog that’s choking to death.

“At least, uh, the other side’s dry?”

Pickles makes a face, and then peels the blanket back to show him a weird yellow-brown stain on the other side of the bed. “I dunno what that is, and I’m not sleepin’ on it.”

“Yeah, uh, that wasn’t there”--Nathan counts off the days since it’s been his turn for the bed--“three days ago.”

“‘n I can’t smell it either,” Pickles says, and lets out a dramatic, phlegmy sniff to back up his claim.

“Probably for the best, huh?” Nathan says, trying to add some levity. A weird brown stain could mean any number of things. Nathan hopes it’s just, like, spilled beer or maybe soup or something, because despite the four of them making a pact to not eat in the bed, he’s pretty sure all of them have broken that pact multiple times, but also he’s not about to put his face near it to find out. That can be Skwisgaar’s problem. Or Murderface’s.

Maybe they can burn the whole bed and Magnus’ girlfriend can make them a new one or something. Or Murderface could steal one from his work. Shoplift a whole bed. Skwisgaar doesn’t understand why Murderface works at a furniture store but can’t hook them up with free furniture. The four of them had spent a long, drunken evening thinking up all the ways they could successfully pull off the world’s biggest furniture heist, but there was a lot of Swedish and a lot of meandering guitar picking as Skwsigaar brainstormed this most useless of plots.

Pickles doesn’t seem to see the humor in their present situation. His lower lip is poking out in a semblance of a pout and he’s got that red sick-person flush in his cheeks that Nathan thinks probably means he’s got a fever or something.

Nathan can’t make the bed dry any faster. Maybe he could use the hair dryer on full blast. He stomps back into the bathroom without another word to Pickles and shoves the plug haphazardly into the socket nearest the bed.

The hair dryer doesn’t work. He flips its switch a good half dozen times and it doesn’t even start up. “Useless,” he mutters.

Pickles watches him from across the room, where he’s propped himself against the wall and is dabbing a few missed spots on his legs dry with an unsoaked corner of the blanket. “Isn’t that Skwisgaar’s?”

“Yeah. Some fancy Swedish douchebag machine.”

“I think ya gotta--” whatever it is that Pickles thinks he needs to do is cut off by a vigorous bout of coughing. Nathan watches for blood, partly curiosity but this time also tinged with...concern? Ugh, that’s soppy. He’s not going to think about that too hard. But no, Pickles is his friend, his bandmate; it’s natural to be concerned. They can’t rehearse if Pickles is sick, and they won’t have a band if he dies. But Pickles is coughing into the crook of his elbow and these coughs are lacking the wet cadence of the earlier ones. Blood-free.

“Never mind. Whatever. I’m tired,” Pickles says once his cough subsides. There’s an edge of whine in “tired”, and Nathan’s not, like, gay or anything, but Pickles looks kind of cute when he’s sulking.

But Pickles probably should rest. They’d all slept a lot when they’d had the flu, and usually felt better after the fact. He smooths the towel over the wet spot on the bed and gestures at it helpfully. Pickles scrunches his face up again. “‘s wet, Nathan.”

“Well, I can’t--I can’t make it dry faster!”

Pickles pulls himself up, using the edge of the bed for leverage. “‘m gonna use the couch. Come give me a hand, Nate’n. You owe me for last week.”

Nathan doesn't want to give up the couch, and he doesn’t remember exactly what he owes Pickles for, but he’s already feeling guilty for dousing the guy and he doesn’t like the pity curdling in his gut.

“Uh. Sure,” he says, not clear on what, exactly, Pickles wants his help with, and follows Pickles out to the living room. Pickles doesn’t make any moves to get on the couch, and Nathan’s not fucking carrying him over there; there’s no way his legs have suddenly stopped working. He walked his way out from the bedroom to the living room, and he can walk from one side of the room to the couch.

“Couch is yours,” he says to Pickles, trying to prod him into action, and scuffs his toe against the carpet to try and ascertain where the cleanest patch might be. Maybe he can sleep there for the night. As long as he doesn’t wind up where he puked that one time, the carpet should be...it should be fine. Maybe not smell great, but fine.

Nathan settles himself onto the floor. Pickles stares at him. Nathan closes his eyes. If Pickles wants another apology, he’s not going to get one. Nathan already did everything he could. He said “sorry”. He’s not gonna grovel.

“Why...why’re you on the floor?”

Nathan opens his eyes. Does Pickles want them squeezed onto that tiny-ass couch? Together?

“Nate?”

“Wha-?” Pickles is gonna push it. Okay. Fine. Nathan props himself up on an elbow and gestures vaguely to the couch. “Not...not a lotta room, Pickles.”

Pickles looks at him, uncomprehending for a moment, and then seems to realize something, because then he’s laughing at Nathan, albeit not very loudly or enthusiastically. It’s an affectionate chuckle, and it makes Nathan’s heart rate tick up. Nathan’s no stranger to this racing-heart feeling, but it’s usually accompanied by a vigorous workout, or a good rehearsal. This is neither of those. This night is doing its best to make Nathan feel weird and he’s not gonna let it, not if he can help it.

The best defense is a good offense. “What’s so funny?” he grumbles.

“It’s a pull out bed... couch…whazzit called?” Pickles gestures as if trying to cue the word from Nathan. “It’s a sofa bed thing, Nate.”

What. Nathan sits up properly to stare at Pickles, open-mouthed.

“Didn’t…”--a cough-- “Didn’t Mag show you? When he dropped it off?”

“Uhhhh…” Nathan says.

“Have you been”--Pickles clears his throat with a nasty hack and Nathan almost gives a sympathy wince-- “sleepin’ on thet tiny-ass couch for the past week?”

“Yeah,” Nathan says, sheepish, and Pickles lets out another little cough-laugh. But he doesn’t remember Murderface or Skwisgaar using any sort of pull-out bed. Granted, neither of them have been home much these last few days, but still.

“Jeezus, no wonder you’ve been complainin’ about yer back fuckin’ hurtin’!”

He starts coughing again, and Nathan realizes then that Pickles hasn’t actually been able to drink any water. Just had it doused on him like the world’s shittiest baptism. Welcome to the world, kid, your Christian name’s probably not Pickles, but that’s what we’re gonna call you, and your one band mate’s a big lunking idiot and the others aren’t much better. May the lord be your shepherd, something, something, Jesus. Nathan had been too young to remember his own baptism, and it’s been years since he went to church, but he’s pretty sure it goes something like that.

The mug is retrieved and filled, and then he places it carefully on the milk crate coffee “table” in front of Pickles, who looks at it suspiciously before picking it up with both hands and taking a long drink.

“Thanks, Nate,” he says, after he catches his breath. His voice sounds a little bit better now. “But I think I’d’ve preferred a beer.” He makes a little grimace of disgust as he says this. Pickles has complained several times about the taste of the tap water in Florida, and Murderface has called him “spoiled” by Lake Michigan. Nathan doesn’t follow--water just tastes like that, as far as he’s aware, kind of mealy and briney. Only fancy people buy bottled water, but Pickles hauls cases of it home when he can afford to, and guards it fiercely from depredation by the rest of them. Must be one of those rich-person things left over from his Snakes n Barrels days, Nathan figures.

Nathan moves toward the fridge to get him that beer, but Pickles waves a tired hand. “Jest help me set up this bed. I wanna sleep.” If Pickles is picking sleep over booze, Nathan doesn’t want to fuck around.

They pull the couch apart together; the cushions, the one decorative pillow they own, and the single blanket Nathan had been using are amassed in a pile that Nathan hopes maybe he can make a serviceable bed out of. Maybe he’ll sleep a little better than he’d hoped.

The mattress portion is sunk deep into the couch. They each take a corner and pull. Nathan pretends not to notice how Pickles’ arms are well muscled in the dim light. The mattress doesn’t move.

“Fuck,” Pickles says, and starts hacking again. The force of it makes him take a step backwards, and he almost knocks the mug off the milk crates. Nathan’s football reflexes kick in and he snatches the handle before it can fall. Pickles offers him a bleary grin, his face all red (from the fever, Nathan reminds himself), and says, “Good catch.”

Nathan makes a decision.

“You,” he says, and points menacingly to the pile of cushions on the floor. “Sit.”

“Fuck yoooou, I’m naht a dog,” Pickles whines back, but after a three-second stare-down, two pairs of green eyes locked, Pickles relents and flops into the pile of cushions. “These smell like ass, Nate. I can’t believe ya slept on these.”

“Sorry you know how Magnus’ ass smells, Pickles. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

Pickles lobs the lone pillow at Nathan’s head.

Nathan has no idea what he’s doing. A proper sofa bed is a thin, folded mattress on two legs with a handle you yank once to pop everything into place. Maybe there’s a satisfying click sound or something. That’s it. Whoever designed this sofabed did so in the most confusing way possible, he decides, because instead of there just being one piece that pulls out, there are some support poles, some sort of tie-down system for the mattress, and a handful of fiddly latches that don’t make any fucking sense. This sofabed sucks, and it’s just like Magnus to leave them with the shitty one so he can lounge around on some luxury leather piece with his head in his girlfriend’s lap.

Pickles tries to offer suggestions from the cushion-pile, but doesn’t make any move to actually get up and help again. Nathan’s not sure if he should be annoyed or relieved. He feels like his fucking dad.

“I don’t need help, Rose. I’ve got the situation under control,” his dad had said before the treehouse had fallen right out of the slender-branched tree and almost crushed him and Nathan. That had been such a cool treehouse, too. They’d been planning to paint it blue and green, to camouflage it in the sky and leaves, and it was gonna have a roll-up ladder, and three big windows. In the end they’d given it a Viking funeral, as Nathan liked to think of it, but really they’d used it as kindling the next time they’d gone on a family camping trip. The smell of the burning wood varnish had made his eyes sting for hours.

For his distraction, Nathan earns a nasty pinch on the meat of his thumb, the final latch that won’t fit into place getting its vengeance. He roars, and Pickles yelps behind him, “Nate, what the fuck!”

It fucking hurts, that’s what, and it’s already swelling all red and nasty, and Nathan clutches his wrist in his hand and breathes through his teeth.

“Fuck this fucking--” Nathan kicks one of the legs of the bed. There’s a click, and the mattress suddenly settles.

“Are you fucking kidding me…” He’s staring at the bed in disbelief. If all he’d had to do was fucking kick it--and then there’s a pair of warm, dry hands on his, and he realizes Pickles has gotten up and is right there, holding his hand and wincing sympathetically at the swelling.

“Ya gotta ice that,” Pickles says definitively, and starts wobbling towards the kitchen, still grasping Nathan’s hand, before Nathan can process how he feels about the warmth of Pickles’ palm on the top of his hand. It feels nicer than it should feel, he thinks. Pickles’ hands are so warm.

Nathan jerks his hand out of Pickles’ grip before it can get too comfortable there and grumbles. “What I need is a beer.” He pretends not to notice the flash of...hurt? Offense? Some sort of feeling that flicks across Pickles’ face. Nathan strides past him and avoids eye contact.

“Yer such a fuckin’ dad,” Pickles says as he trails Nathan into the kitchen. He’s taken the single blanket Nathan had been using and it’s pulled over his head like a nun’s habit, a few half-dredded chunks of hair sticking out. “Won’t take any help with puttin’ shit together and then ya need a beer when it all goes sideways.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be sitting?” Nathan snips back as he digs through the fridge. Too many rank-smelling takeout containers are between him and the last two cans of beer, and he’s only got one working hand right now. He tucks them both under his arm and half-herds Pickles back towards the couch.

“For you,” he says, and shoves one at Pickles. A peace offering.

Nathan splays himself awkwardly over his cushion pile and tries to pry open his own beer. When he finally succeeds, he drains the thing in three gulps and then sits there with nothing to distract him from the throbbing in his hand. He gives his thumb, already starting to bruise, a baleful look and wonders if the throbbing is going to keep him from sleeping.

Pickles interrupts his reverie. “Get thet bag of frozen peas,” he says. “Fer yer hand.” He pops the top of his beer, takes a long pull, and then settles back against the mashed-flat pillow, propped up against the back of the couch, that had come with the sofabed.

It’s during his hunt for the peas that Nathan finds a treasure: an old pot brownie he’d hidden there, buried under a stash of freezer-burned burritos that no one is brave enough to eat after the first one had given Murderface food poisoning. It’s a good-sized brownie too, enough there for two or three trips. Or for two people to split. He looks back at Pickles, who’s sitting up but looks half-asleep, eyes closed and empty beer can on the ground beside him, and makes another decision.

Sack of peas draped over his pinched thumb, he ambles back over to Pickles, and, just to check if he’s still awake, presses the frozen brownie against his forehead.

Pickles starts and lets out a little yelp. He gives Nathan another one of those pouty little frowns that Nathan is finding more and more endearing as the night wears on. Nathan’s going to blame the beer. Booze. Empty stomach. Hits you hard. Right.

“Look what I found.”

“Wuzzat?” Pickles says, and squints at the plastic-wrapped square in Nathan’s hand.

“Weed brownie,” Nathan says, and watches Pickles eyes widen.

“Hell yes,” Pickles says, and moves to grab it out of Nathan’s hand. He unpeels the plastic wrap from their treasure, and breaks off a chunk.

They split it nearly evenly, and Nathan soon enough finds that between the cold of the thawing peas and the weed, his hand doesn’t feel so bad anymore, so long as he’s not touching it. They sit together amicably on the couch, Pickles half-dozing and Nathan trying not to think too hard about anything. Just two guys, sitting together on a sofabed. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing gay about that. Just hangin’ out, sittin’ around as the weed brownie kicks in. It’s cool. It’s fine.

Pickles has slid down the back of the couch and onto the pillows, and at some point the blanket had come off from over Pickles’ head and is now wrapped around him. His eyes have drifted shut and Nathan figures it’s probably time to make himself scarce. He looks forlornly at the pile of couch cushions that are going to be his bed for the night. Pickles is right, too, now that he’s mentioned it: he’d noticed a funk on them the last few nights he’d slept on them, and now that Pickles has given it a name, Nathan knows he’s right. They do smell like ass.

And Nathan has no blanket either, on account of Pickles having the only dry one wrapped around himself, tucked around his shoulders like the world’s biggest swaddled infant. Just his head and shoulders peek out from the cocoon he’s crafted for himself, his red hair splayed out across the pillow, and Nathan’s heart does another stupid lub-dub quickening, for no good reason. If he could, he thinks he’d reach into his own chest and give it a warning squeeze, tell it to knock that shit off immediately. It’s not like that. They’re pals. Buddies. Bandmates.

As Nathan shifts to get up from the couch, one of Pickles eyes opens slightly. “G’night, Nathan,” he mumbles, voice still hoarse, but he’s not coughing anywhere near as much, so Nathan thinks the weed must be working. And maybe the water a bit too. But probably mostly the weed.

Nathan lifts himself off the bed and shuffles over to the pile of couch cushions. He stares down at it and frowns before bending down to try and rearrange them into something even remotely comfortable. There are four cushions and one pillow, and all of them are saggy or lumpy in various places. Weed makes him sleepy, but he’s not sure he’ll ever be sleepy enough for laying on this lackluster mattress he’s crafted.

Pickles’ thin, raspy voice pipes up behind him. “Nate’n, what’re ya…” He trails off, the question incomplete.

He shifts to sit up slightly, and his hair falls across his face in a way that makes Nathan feel mute and gooey. Like he’s just woken up next to Pickles after they’ve been, like, gay-married for ten years or something. That’s definitely the weed, that wash of sincere affection and comfort, and it’s not like Sober Nathan would ever want to marry Pickles or anything, but Weed Nathan is a whole different beast, more pliable and more suggestable, more tender and more sensitive, and quite a bit more resistant to being tamped down.

“Isn’t everyone a little bit gay?” Weed Nathan asks Sober Nathan, and Sober Nathan has to concede that, yeah, he’d heard that somewhere. Maybe in a high school sociology class or something. And then Nathan realizes that Weed Nathan has been distracting him, and Pickles has asked him a question and is waiting, face growing slightly more concerned, for an answer.

“That brownie gotcha good, huh?” Pickles says with a raspy laugh. “Where’d ya get it anyway?”

Nathan can’t remember rightly where he got it, but he thinks maybe it was that guy that Murderface knew who’d hooked them all up at a party three months ago, because he remembers another edible he’d gotten there that he’d eaten all by himself that had knocked him right on his ass.

“That guy Murderface knows. From his work. I think.”

Pickles lets out a little huff of amusement. “That guy had goooood weed,” he says, and lets his head loll back before suddenly snapping to attention, his green eyes somehow both drowsy and drilling into Nathan. That stare. Nathan remembers Pickles’ gaze from those magazines, too, the same ones with the bared midriffs and titillating headlines, Pickles making “fuck me” eyes at the camera, one hand pulling his shirt up and the waistband of his jeans just slightly down, with the sensationalist phrase “Pickles Bares It All” in blocky font across the cover. Nathan can’t tell if he’s got his wires crossed or if Pickles is actually just that intense and he’s just never noticed.

He shakes his head and looks back up and Pickles just looks confused and kind of sleepy. “Y’okay there, Nate?” he says, and Nathan’s pretty sure that’s just another way of asking him how the weed is, which he’s just explained to Pickles, but then Pickles gives Nathan a dopey little grin, like he’s having a laugh at Nathan’s stupid, stoned expense, and Nathan’s meandering weed-brain forgets its train of thought.

“Wait. I was gonna...gonna ask ya somethin’. Fuck.” Pickles lets out a weak cough and then gestures towards the novelty mug. “Could I get another gulp a’ that?” he manages to get out before he ends up mired in another coughing fit.

Nathan obliges, hefting the mug one-handed across the expanse of mattress and into Pickles’ hands. Pickles doesn’t take it from him, just tilts it to glug some down, leaving Nathan awkwardly holding the mug as best he can with his one good hand. Once Pickles has had his fill, he pushes the mug away and Nathan only sloshes a little over the edge and into the carpet as he sets it back on the milk crate. They both pretend not to see it spill.

“Do I feel hot to you?” Pickles mutters, and before Nathan’s really aware of it, Pickles’ hands are clasped once again around Nathan’s--his uninjured one this time--and he’s pressing Nathan’s palm against his forehead, which is slightly warm and sticky and slick with feversweat and forehead grease. The blanket has slid down and most of Pickles’ chest and stomach are exposed again, and there’s that treasure trail again. Nathan flicks his gaze away and prays Pickles hasn’t noticed.

“Uh...you feel kinda...sticky, I guess.”

“Haven’t showered,” Pickles says.

“Uhh...okay. I’m not gonna help you shower, Pickles.”

“Too tired,” Pickles says without missing a beat, like Nathan hasn’t just made the most horrendous faux pas, made it sound like he was actually suggesting showering with Pickles. No.

Nathan lets his hand linger on Pickles’ forehead for a beat too long. Pickles is looking up at him from underneath his hair and Nathan’s hand, and Nathan feels that same queasy, too-warm feeling he’d had when Cynthia Del Rio had held his hand in the seventh grade.

“Oh! That’s right,” Pickles says, and ducks his head out from under Nathan’s palm. “I remembered”--a cough-- “what I was gonna ask you.”

“Huh?”

“Why’d you get up and start fuckin’ with the couch cushions?”

“I was gonna...sleep on them?” Nathan says like it should be the most obvious thing in the world.

Pickles fwumps back down onto the mattress and looks up at Nathan from his prone position.

“Why?” he says, and then thwaps the other side of the mattress with his bare hand, a little glint in his eye like he knows exactly what Nathan’s been thinking and exactly what he’s doing. “There’s plenty of room here.”

“Uh,” Nathan says.

Pickles scoots so he’s resting on the edge of the mattress and nearly brushing against Nathan’s knees. “Won’t touch ya or nothin’, if you’re worried about the germy-germs,” he says and ducks his head to the side to cough into his elbow.

“Bed’s dry, too,” he says after he’s done hacking up what sounds like a half a lung. “And there’s no weird stains. Doesn’t smell like ass either. At least not thet I can tell,” he says, and gives a phlegmy snort that’s half-laugh. “You don’t have a blanket over dere anyways.”

Pickles has a point, Nathan has to concede. If his options are four lumpy couch cushions splayed out on the dirty-ass carpet, or a relatively clean, dry mattress and a proper blanket, shared or not, it’s not much of a contest.

Nathan plods to the other side of the bed and gingerly rests himself on the edge, as though the bed might suddenly decide it can no longer bear his weight and collapse under them both, or snap itself shut like a bear trap, regardless of the fact that he and Pickles had been sitting on it together for over an hour and absolutely nothing had happened to them.

“I’m naht gonna bite you,” Pickles says. “Unless you want me to.” He waggles his eyebrows at Nathan, and it’s not like Pickles never does this, this weird half-sincere flirting that Nathan figures must be some bisexual holdover from his 80s glam rock days. Pickles has played the flirt with all of them, with Nathan and Magnus, with Murderface, with Skwisgaar. Skwisgaar usually just shrugs or laughs; Murderface either protests or, if he’s feeling particularly confident in his masculinity that evening, rolls his eyes; and Magnus will sometimes play along and flirt back. It’s pretty obvious, to anyone with, like, eyes, that Magnus would probably escalate if Pickles ever let him, but Pickles likes to say teasing little things and then dart away like a mischievous cat who’s just made some trouble but knows its owner is too slow and clumsy to catch it. Nathan’s prior defense when Pickles has been flirty has always been to just say something like, “Whatever, Pickles,” but he’s finding it hard to put up his guard now.

He settles on saying, “You’re sick, and your fever’s making you weird, Pickles.”

“And we’re both hiiiiigh.”

“Yeah. That too.”

Pickles has fully unwrapped himself from the blanket and lazily flaps it so it’s spread more evenly across the bed. It’s not a big blanket by any means, especially not for two people, but it more than adequately covers the surface, and the weather’s been temperamental anyways. A night where he starts out completely ensconced in the covers can turn into a morning so humid a cold shower only helps so long as he’s under the icy spray.

But so far the night's been slightly warm, but still bearable, and the windows are open to let out the day’s heat, and Nathan’s never been one for wearing much to bed. And that’s another thing, he realizes. He and Pickles are both in nothing but their boxers, or, in Pickles’ case, a pair of tighty whities whose elastic has started to give around the crotch and thighs. Not that Nathan has looked closely enough to notice that. Not at all.

“C’maaaahn. Pick something. Bed or floor? I wanna sleep.”

The choice is obvious, but Nathan’s now very aware, again, of how much bare skin is between them.

“I’m not spooning you. You’re on your own for body heat,” he says finally, and doesn’t look to see how Pickles reacts to that statement. He retrieves his t-shirt from where he’d left it on the floor, and pulls it over his head. His jeans lay in a crumpled pile underneath, along with a greying pair of socks, but he thinks it might be weird to dress up completely before going to bed. Still. The clothes feel like some layer of protection from...whatever this is. Weed Nathan can think whatever he wants, but Sober Nathan’s like ninety percent sure he’s not even a little bit gay.

Okay, maybe like seventy-five percent.

Fifty percent.

Fuck it.

Nathan throws the blanket aside and settles on the edge. The bed's skinny metal legs creak warningly but hold steady, and Nathan lets himself recline all the way. The mattress is thin, and he can feel the frame through the flimsy padding, but it’s more even, more flat, and still more comfortable, than the couch cushions themselves. It also smells, like, way better, even with Pickles laying next to him giving off the slightly stale, sour odor of sweat particular to the sickly and febrile.

Pickles, propped up slightly on his elbows after he’d moved aside for Nathan to join him, watches this all with great interest, as though Nathan were some fluttery, terribly shy young woman he’d managed to coax into a clandestine cuddle under the school bleachers.

“Thought so,” he says, and lets out a pleased little huff of air before settling back in. He lets his eyes close again, an expression of contentment radiating from his face, and Nathan can’t really understand what about this situation is so pleasing to Pickles. Nathan can only blame the weed so many times, but maybe it, like, metabolizes differently when you’re sick, or maybe Nathan’s so used to Pickles being crossfaded, doubling or tripling up on mind-altering substances that he’s not familiar with what being purely stoned does to the guy.

The lights are still on in the kitchen, but now that Nathan’s actually laying down, the body high has him properly couch-locked, and the idea of rousing himself for the single act of flipping a switch seems like an insurmountable effort. It’s pushing three a.m. and soon enough the rising sun will encroach on the room anyways, the curtains hanging on the single window so flimsy and threadbare that headlights regularly flood the room from the gas station kitty corner to them.

Pickles’ breathing has slowed next to him, so Nathan decides it probably won’t hurt to leave the lights on for the last few hours of the night. He closes his eyes and tries to remember his dream again and ignore just how close Pickles is.

They doze fitfully for half an hour. Each time Nathan thinks he might finally be falling asleep, he becomes awkwardly aware of himself and his body and the pain in his thumb again and has to try and settle back in. Pickles is letting out snuffly little breaths next to him and the smell of sweat is stronger now. The blanket is bunched up around Pickles, pulled up to his chin, and barely any of it is left for Nathan, which is, frankly, fine with him.

Nathan drifts back off again, and right at the cusp of sleep, something warm and heavy smacks across his chest. It’s Pickles, kicking and flinging the blanket off himself, and when Nathan rolls over with a protesting grunt, Pickles mumbles, “Shit, sorry dude. Felt like I was getting attacked by a boa constrictor or somethin’.”

“I think you were dreaming, Pickles,” Nathan says.

“Naw, I haven’t been sleeping. It’s too fuckin’ hot. But also I’m really fuckin’ cold, somehow? This sucks.” He flips onto his back, looking at Nathan out of the corner of his eye, and sure enough Nathan can see the sheen of sweat on Pickles’ face, beading on his upper lip and highlighting the apples of his cheeks.

The force of Pickles’ eyes on him is too much. He can’t bear it, but it might be rude to turn away from him, so Nathan does the next best thing. The bag of frozen peas is laying on the bed next to Nathan, condensation soaking the bed, but it’s still cold, and so Nathan takes it and thwumps it gently over Pickles’ face.

Pickles gives a squawk of surprise at the cold.

“Nate’n!”

“Sorry.”

Pickles pauses. “Actually, this feels kinda nice.”

He turns to look at Nathan, pushing the bag up onto his forehead so it’s not covering his eyes, and underneath he’s giving Nathan such a gooey, affectionate look that Nathan wants to snatch the bag back and cover his own flushing face with them.

“Thanks, Nate.”

Sometimes Nathan feels like other people are hidden picture puzzles, but the pictures are always moving. Count the number of fish in this picture of the ocean but all the fish are blue, find the zebra in the field of grass, where’s Waldo in his stupid red stripes, what’s the true meaning of this twitch of the eyebrow, how sincere is that smile, and what does it mean for a smile to be sincere, and why does everyone else seem to be able to solve these puzzles so quickly?

Pickles is a large print book, all bold colors and bold emotions, and even if Nathan trips over himself trying to figure out where they stand, Pickles almost always makes it clear pretty quickly. Nathan likes that about him, the straightforward emotions, very little pretense, and a whole lot of energy. And Weed Nathan is pretty sure he’s not reading this situation wrong, even if it is horrendously gay.

Later, he’ll blame the weed and the lack of sleep (because he’d read that waking someone up in the middle of dream was the worst time to do it or something). Later they’ll be practicing together with everyone else and he’ll turn to say something and catch Pickles watching him over his drumkit and he’ll think back, embarrassed, to this moment.

It’s not great, as far as first kisses go. It’s not the worst either--that honor goes to a girl whose name he’d never gotten, who’d chatted him up at a high school party at some rich kid’s house, kissed him in the swimming pool, and then promptly vomited into the water, forcing an evacuation of twenty-some teenagers from the pool and nearly triggering Nathan’s own gag reflex.

Pickles’ mouth tastes like old beer and stale weed brownie, and Nathan’s pretty sure his sleep breath isn’t much better. But Pickles’ mouth is soft and warm, and Nathan thinks if you’d told him five years ago that he’d be sharing an apartment and booze and weed and high-kissing Pickles from Snake n Barrels, that Pickles, that he’d have told you to fuck right off.

He can feel a little warm puff of air on his face as Pickles exhales in surprise, and then Pickles mouth goes soft against his. There’s a curious flick of tongue against his lips, and Pickles is so warm. Fucking on weed was sensational, but kissing on weed, kissing Pickles on weed, is something else entirely. Life-changing.

And then Pickles is pulling back and his breathing is a little rough, and he says, not unkindly, “Maybe not the best timing, Nate?”

The endorphin rush Nathan has gotten from kissing Pickles slams head first into a brick wall.

“I--I, uh, it’s, uh…”

Pickles doesn’t say anything, and Nathan refuses to look at him.

“Never mind. This is dumb. I’m dumb. It’s the weed. Fuck. Sorry. Sorry, Pickles. I’m not, it’s not, not--.”

And then Pickles is laughing at him, which is just another indignity piled on top of embarrassment. “You’re fine, Nate’n. I just meant, like, I’m sick as a dog and you’re tryin’ to play tonsil hockey wit’ me? You got somethin’ you’re tryin’ to get out of? Is that why yer tryin’ to get sick too?” His sentence trails off into a cough and he sits up to sip from the mug, eyes on Nathan.

“No, it’s not...it’s nothing! I didn’t mean it, and it was dumb, and this is dumb, and...and I’m gonna go sleep on the floor.”

Nathan is sure he’s imagining the look of disappointment on Pickles’ face as he hefts himself off the bed.

“Y’want the blanket?” Pickles says in a weak voice, and Nathan decides he must sound like that because he’s been coughing, and not because Nathan’s hurt his feelings. It was Nathan’s dumb idea to try and kiss him anyways, and Pickles probably wanted nothing to do with it.

“No.”

“Oh. Okay.” The bed squeaks as Pickles shifts and rolls back over. “G’night, I guess.”

Nathan settles onto the couch cushions, and they seem somehow even more lumpy and gross-smelling than they had just two hours ago when he’d been fast asleep on them.

He shifts his weight, trying to get comfortable, but the kiss won’t leave him alone, like a gag reel playing an endless loop in his mind. And he’s the joke.

The minutes tick by, and Nathan still can’t sleep, too buzzed with adrenaline and shame. He considers shuffling back into the bedroom and claiming the wet, stained bed, but when he goes in to check it, the mattress has barely dried at all in the humidity. He locks himself in the bathroom to piss and brush the stale sleep taste out of his mouth, squinting at his reflection in the cracked mirror.

He hits the kitchen light switch on his way back in, adamantly refusing to look at Pickles, and fumbles his way across the room to his sad pile of cushions.

And then, quietly, “Nate’n?”

Nathan isn’t sure he’s heard correctly so he doesn’t respond.

“Nate’n?” Louder this time.

“Uh…sorry. For waking you up. If I did.”

“No, I can’t sleep.”

“Oh.”

“I’m, like, real cold now. Chills and night sweats and all that good stuff, I guess. And, y’know, it’s warmer if you’re up here. Blanket’ll trap the heat.”

It’s an olive branch. Nathan doesn’t say anything.

“Look, jest come back up here. Stop poutin’ on the floor.”

Nathan bristles at this. He’s not pouting. He doesn’t pout. And even if he is upset, or embarrassed, it’s none of Pickles’ business. Except it kind of is, that cloying, doubting voice in his head says. If Nathan hadn’t gotten all weird and weed-gooey, hadn’t leaned forward and kissed Pickles, they wouldn’t be in this situation. They could be sleeping, just two completely heterosexual buddies sharing a bed because it was the only option.

Pickles lets out another sniffle. “C’maaahn, Nate,” he says, and puts that little whine into his voice that he likes to use when he’s trying to get his way. Nathan knows Pickles knows it works, because he’s seen him use it on Murderface, Magnus, and Charles, all to varying levels of success.

The bed creaks as Nathan slides back under the blanket, and right at that moment, a pair of headlights cuts into their room, and Pickles’ face is briefly illuminated. It’s awful, Nathan thinks. Pickles looks so very pleased, but underneath it is what looks like...relief? Nathan’s not sure how to parse these emotions, what Pickles could possibly be relieved by, but years later he’ll understand that moment with more clarity than he’d ever expected to--Pickles’ fear of abandonment, his desperate clinging to anything and anyone he’s ever become too attached to, the approval he seeks pathologically.

But for now, they’re sharing this shitty sofabed, and sure enough, Nathan realizes, Pickles was sincere about the chills; he’s shivering under the single thin blanket. His teeth are clattering together, and he’s making the bed judder slightly with his shakes, the metallic frame useless in suppressing any movement.

“Jesus, Pickles,” Nathan says finally. “It’s like you got the flu all over again.”

“Whatever th-th-this is, it f-f-f-fuckin’ sucks.” The bag of frozen peas is melting a wet splotch onto the sheets and Nathan feels something like pity stirring somewhere deep in the recesses of his dumb gay brain.

“I, uh...fuck. Hold on. Come here,” he says, and throws an arm over Pickles, trying to reach across his body to tuck the blanket in around him. But Pickles takes it as an invitation, and scoots right up into Nathan’s space, the full weight of him against Nathan’s chest, and Nathan’s brain short-circuits.

The kiss was a stupid little weed impulse, warm but brief, and easily dismissed. This is full-body contact, actual cuddling, and, well, Nathan’s kissed plenty of girls, or plenty of girls have kissed him, but cuddling is a whole other animal.

As if sensing Nathan’s hesitation, feeling the tension in his body, Pickles says, “Don’t overthink it, Nate,” and yawns.

****

When Skwisgaar finds them in the morning, they’re curled together, the defrosted, soggy bag of peas on the floor. He makes a terrible racket as he comes in, and Nathan awakens to Skwisgaar observing them from the kitchen as he digs around in the drawers for something. “Huh,” he says when he meets Nathan’s eye, and gives them a goofy grin.

“Don’t… fuckin’, don’t. The bed got wet.”

“I’m sures it did,” says Skwisgaar, raising an eyebrow, and Nathan realizes what he’s said.

“That’s not… Ugh. Fuck off, Skwisgaar. Your mind’s in the gutter. He’s got, like, the flu again or something.”

“Goods thing I’m not stayingks here then. Don’ts need to goes through that again,” Skwisgaar replies and swans off without saying anything else. A few minutes later, Nathan hears the shower start up. Nathan, propped up on his elbows, sits up slightly, and the bed creaks. Pickles is still asleep next to him, oblivious to the noise they’ve been making, wheezy little breaths and the occasional little sniffle-snore that are more endearing than they have any right to be.

When Nathan finally gets up to pee--after listening for Skwisgaar vacating the bathroom--Pickles almost immediately rolls over to take up the whole bed, and Nathan marvels briefly at how the guy splays himself out like he’s got twice as many limbs.

Nathan hoofs it down to the gas station across the street, and buys up their entire stock of Dayquil (2), Nyquil (4), and canned soup (8). More beer, too. Pickles will appreciate that, even if all Nathan can afford after his big soup splurge is a 24-pack of Keystone Light. Not like he can taste anything anyways, all snotted up like he is.

When he gets home, Skwisgaar is gone again, and Pickles is sitting up in the bed, blankets tossed aside. He’s still flushed, but he looks a little better, his gaze alert and his face less sweat-sheened.

“What’dya get?”

Nathan pulls out the Dayquil and considers tossing it to Pickles, but he doesn’t trust his football throw or Pickles’ reflexes right now, so he shuffles over and places it on milk crates next to Pickles, who looks at it for a split-second before peeling away the plastic, twisting off the cap, and chugging down what looks like a third of the bottle, the little measuring cup discarded on the floor without a moment’s acknowledgment.

“Thenks,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, as though Nathan’s brought him a refreshing glass of water instead of knock-you-on-your-ass cold medicine.

“You, uh, you sound better. Today. Now.”

“Got a great nurse,” Pickles says, and Nathan feels his face go red-warm, like he’s been sitting in a hot car without any A/C.

“Oh, and I guess the hair dryer works. Ya gotta press a li’l button on it first or somethin’. On the plug. Skwisgaar showed me. But he says the bed’s mostly dry now anyways, so don’t worry about it. He said he’s gonna stay with some chick so the bed’s ours.” Nathan’s heart thuds treacherously at “ours”.

“And Murderface is at his grandma’s. Something, something, grandpa had a health scare in the middle of the night. It’s jest you ‘n’ me, buddy,” Pickles continues, like he doesn’t even notice what he’s said.

“Uh...what about--what about the stain?” It’s caution, not disappointment, that’s making him ask, Nathan tells himself. Concern. Friendly concern.

“Apparently it’s gravy from a Salisbury steak microwave dinner. That, uh, thet I made. That’s what Skwis says. I don’t remember it though...musta been super blazed.” Pickles pushes a hand through his hair and grins at Nathan as if to preclude any scolding over his violation of the “no eating in the shared bed” rule. Nathan doesn’t think he could be mad at Pickles right now if he tried.

The dampness has brought out the bed’s stench even more, a sharp tang of sweat and, yeah, it’s definitely kind of gravy-fragranced in there too, like a high school cafeteria after lunch period is over. Not a great combination. He slides the windows open but it does little to combat the odor. It’s as good an excuse as any to keep sharing the fold-out bed instead of schlepping everything to the laundromat two blocks away, even though neither of them says anything to that effect. When Pickles settles in next to Nathan the following night and doesn't really mind the gap between them, Nathan’s totally fine with telling himself it’s just the rank-ass bed bringing them together here. And if two mornings out of three, he wakes up with Pickles pressed against him, if he pretends to stay asleep until Pickles wakes up, it’s just fine. The guy’s sick. Needs body warmth. It’s completely explainable.

Nathan stays with him, mostly, just taking the occasional trip down to the gas station to buy more beer and some gross herbal throat drops that Pickles swears on his Midwesterner’s soul really do work. He bounces lyric ideas off of Pickles, who approves them all without any complaint, and it’s really way easier to write music without Magnus breathing down their necks, or Skwisgaar insisting they need to add another guitar solo. Three days, two bottles of Nyquil, one Dayquil, and all eight cans of Campbell’s condensed chicken noodle later, Pickles has only the faintest sniffle left.

The day after that, Nathan sneezes a dozen times in rapid succession and Pickles leaves while Nathan’s sleeping off the second case of beer they’ve split in the last three days. When Nathan awakens and finds Pickles isn’t there, but an angry scratching sensation in his throat is, he pretends he doesn’t feel the sting of abandonment, but some sulky part of him thinks, “Well fuck you too, Pickles.” After everything he’d done for Pickles, after all the time they’d spent palling around the last few days, he would have hoped Pickles hadn’t gotten sick of him, but he’s also learned, from the past few months of living with the guy, that Pickles, restless as he is, would absolutely want to escape the confines of the apartment once he was well enough.

But Pickles returns not even an hour later, and his arms are laden with grocery bags, filled with a whole case of twenty-four cans of Campbell’s chicken soup and some hardcore prescription cough syrup he’s managed to rustle up from somewhere.

“Yer a big guy,” he says by way of explanation as he dumps the cans on the counter, and Nathan finds he doesn’t mind the taste of chicken noodle soup, even after he’s finished off a dozen of them. Pickles heats each one to near-boiling in the microwave, and Nathan eats them all, even with the faint plastic taste lingering in the background. They watch shitty TV and he and Pickles chug beers, though between the booze and the soup it means he has to get up to pee what feels like every five minutes. Pickles sticks around, and they keep sharing that sofabed, dragging the now-dry blankets from the bedroom and building themselves a small pillowfort.

Pickles kisses Nathan once, softly, on the mouth the second day, when they’re both dopey on codeine cough syrup, huddled under the couch cushions with Die Hard playing in the background, and they don’t talk about it in the morning, not really, because Nathan doesn’t know how to have this conversation, and Pickles doesn’t even act like he remembers the night before.

Pickles pays back Nathan’s earlier kindness with an edible of his own, too, a chocolate chip cookie that smells so skunky even Nathan can tell it’s dosed before Pickles tells him what it is, and the mealy herbal taste cuts through even the congestion and coats the back of his tongue.

And when Nathan falls asleep, belly full and sinuses slowly clearing from the warmth of the soup, if Pickles happens to drunkenly press a small kiss to the top of his head, he finds he doesn’t mind.

They repeat this dance time and again over the years, touches and kisses under the fog of booze or downers, and then a careful retreat the morning after, but Nathan remembers these three days most fondly. You never forget your first, they say, and Nathan holds on to these memories even when they’re the most famous band in the world with a house the size of a small museum--these memories of cramming together in a tiny apartment, of bingewatching stupid TV, of stapling egg cartons to the walls to dampen the sound so the neighbors don’t complain, and of a small, cozy pillowfort, hot with shared breath and body heat, and the taste of cough syrup and chicken noodle soup on his tongue.