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When we finally stumble into his house after a long day of work, Rhett all but collapses against me. I hug him tightly as he lowers his head to my shoulder.
“You feelin’ okay, man?” I ask him.
“Tired,” he whispers.
Well.
I could tell him I told you so, but he’s too worn down for me to get any pleasure from that.
We’re both worn out. It’s been a critically important week for Mythical Entertainment, see. We launched a new season of Buddy System and spent this week rushing all over LA to different interviews and promotional appearances, trying to squeeze in our usual office work and talks with sponsors in the midst of everything. To make matters worse, Rhett has been under the weather all week, but I know he’d rather die than fully admit how terrible he feels. He’s powered through work, fueled by cold medicine and more coffee than I’d ever seen him drink in my life.
After the first day of him coughing and sneezing his way through an entire box of tissues, I tried to get him to take some time off. He could stay home one day and I could tackle the work on my own. Of course, he staunchly refused, arming himself with more tissues and hand sanitizer and a bottle of Dayquil as we began our first round of interviews.
To make things worse, Jessie and the boys are out of town for the weekend, at a dive meet that coincided with this week’s craziness. We didn’t realize the mistake until it was too late to change. Rhett wasn’t happy.
I don’t know how he made it through today’s string of interviews. Thankfully, the only comments on his behavior I saw were from fans who said he “looked kinda tired.”
He withdraws deep into his brain when he’s upset, relying on tired phrases to give social interactions with others a sense of normalcy. In our interviews, he basically recites the pitch of our show back to the interviewer while I mess around with them to keep things interesting. In our office, he snaps at me for little things. Yesterday, we argued in our Uber because he insisted I was chewing gum too loudly. I told him to mind his own damn business for once. He said he couldn’t because I was making too much noise for him to think. So I told him to stop being a jerk and to put in some freaking headphones (which he did), and we didn’t talk for the rest of the trip. Our driver was nice, thankfully. She kept some soft R&B music playing and didn’t ask questions.
I know I shouldn’t get mad when he gets like that. I always feel bad afterwards. He just knows how to push all the wrong buttons, and sometimes that really pisses me off.
“Bath time then bed,” I tell him firmly.
“Don’t need a bath,” he protests, sounding as stubborn as Lando as I lead him upstairs to the bathroom.
“I’m not putting you to bed when you’re this sweaty, man.”
I start filling the bathtub, adding some bubble bath for good measure. When I glance back at him sitting on the lid of the toilet seat, his head is in his hands.
“You okay?”
He shakes his head.
“Hey, man.” I get up from the tub and pull him close. “You’ll be fine once you get a bath and some rest.” Somehow his arms find their way around me and for a moment, I don’t want to move.
He feels a little warm, and not just because the bathroom is filling up with steam.
“Rhett, I think I should take your temperature.”
“I already know I have a fever,” he grumbles into my shirt front.
“Okay, now you’re just being difficult on purpose.” It’s hard to keep the annoyance from my voice.
“I’m not–”
“Look at me, man.” I take his face in both hands and tilt it up towards me. “Do me a favor and let me take care of you tonight, all right?” Running my fingers through his beard is something I don’t get to do often, so I do it now, loving the feel of his face beneath my hands. For once, he doesn’t stop me. His eyes drift closed as my fingers move, from cheek to chin and back again, gliding more slowly each time. I lower my forehead to his and whisper, “Now where’s the thermometer?”
“H-hallway closet.”
His eyes flutter open. I can see plainly that he wants to kiss me, but I pull away, choosing to ignore his disappointed sigh.
Not tonight.
The closet is one of the most beautifully organized things I’ve ever seen in my life. Everything is in see-through containers and boldly labeled with black Sharpie, so finding the thermometer is easy. I make a mental note to thank Jessie later.
According to the thermometer’s display, his temperature is 100°F.
“Barely a fever,” he mutters.
“Still, you shouldn’t have gone to work today” I tug at his sleeve. “Let’s get your clothes off.”
“Ooh, already?” He tries to smile, but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes. “You gonna join me, bo?”
“Rhett. Come on.”
He’s very docile as I help him take off his sweaty t-shirt and jeans. Not the usual way things go when I’m undressing him, but I’ll take it. When he’s finally in the tub, nothing visible above the bubbles except his head, his face finally relaxes. My glasses are fogging up, so I set them on the corner of the sink before rolling up my shirtsleeves and grabbing the shampoo.
“I can—”
“Man, just let me do it this once!”
“Fine, fine.” He sinks even further into the bathtub until his knees are poking out from the bubbles. Lathering shampoo through his hair makes him sigh contentedly and he closes his eyes. I stop to kiss him briefly on the temples, glad to see his cheeks lift in response. He starts humming softly then, snippets from the latest song we’ve written.
“Oh gosh Rhett, please no. I’m sick of hearing that.”
He thinks for a moment as I massage his scalp, before launching into “Time of my Life,” and soon I’m singing along too.
When the last note fades away, he seems happier. He makes a mountain of suds on one knee while I finish with his hair.
“Keep your eyes closed, man,” I say when he tilts his head back. “Don’t wanna get soap in those baby greens.”
“Wh-what?” I’m glad to hear a real smile back in his voice. Nothing like a warm bath to melt away a stubborn mood.
“Yeah, like people say my eyes are baby blues? You got baby greens.”
He scoffs at that. “That sounds like a vegetable, Link. Baby spinach.”
He starts talking about whittling. Not sure where the topic came from, but apparently he’s been thinking about it a lot when he hasn’t been thinking about work. He’s been messing around with that kit I gave him a while back. I tease him a bit about his layers, reminding him to think carefully about whether he really wants to explore whittling or not. Both of our families will end up being dragged into helping him enjoy his new layer if he does.
“I don’t think you want Lando or Shepherd with knives.”
“Oh, my boy’s good with a knife, man!” he says quickly.
“Psh. So is mine.”
“I think Shepherd’s better.”
“Says who?”
“He carved the turkey last Thanksgiving! Didn’t I tell you?”
I’m pretty sure he’s joking… but he’s using that tone of voice reserved for serious bragging. “Wait, really?”
“No!” Rhett laughs then, full-body chuckles ringing off the bathroom tiles. “Link, you know Jessie wouldn’t let him anywhere near anything sharp.”
After rinsing him off and toweling him dry, I have him sit him on the edge of his bed while I help him put on the pajama bottoms I found in his drawer. He looks better now, more like his usual know-it-all self. When he’s wrapped in blankets and propped up by several pillows, I ask him if he’s hungry.
“Not really.”
“You need anything else, then?” I cross my arms.
“Y-yeah. Could you... stay with me?” He glances up, eyes wide and pleading.
He could make me do anything when he looks at me like that, but I’ll still give him a hard time.
“What’s the magic word?”
He rolls his eyes but says it anyway. “Please.”
So I strip down and join him in his cocoon of blankets. I suppose I should be worried about catching whatever he has, but for once I don’t care. If I get sick, he’ll be taking care of me.
We look through Netflix on the TV across the room and settle on watching a nature documentary. He doesn’t say much, but he does let me hold him. It’s something that hasn’t happened often lately, so I take a moment appreciate it. Me with an arm around his bare midriff, his head resting on mine. He’s more relaxed than he’s been this whole week. I can feel it in his muscles and the slow rise and fall of his chest
“Hey Rhett?”
“Mm?” He’s half-asleep.
“You feelin’ better?”
“Mm.” He laces my fingers through his and squeezes. Then sleepily, “Thank you, Link.”
Dang it, he knows just how to make me blush. I turn my head, brushing my lips against one freckled shoulder.
“You’re welcome, Rhett.”