Every beat calms Andrew, who damn near forgets Tony is on the phone until he realizes Nicki is arguing with him again, and he must’ve zoned out.
“Then they can fire or trade me, I’m not leaving him alone again.”
“Tony,” Andrew says, refusing to move his head and instead raising his voice.
“Yeah?”
“Nicki will be there, don’t worry.”
“No, I fucking won’t,” Nicki argues.
At the same time, Tony lets out a relieved sigh, “Thanks, Andrew.”
“Nicki will see you at the game, Tony. Goodbye.”
Not waiting for more, he taps the end button, lowering it to the bed before refocusing his attention on Nicki’s heart. The beats have sped up, likely because he’s agitated, but the sound comforts him just the same. He doesn’t want Nicki to get out of bed and leave him, but he knows he has to.
“You can’t fucking make me go,” Nicki says, his petulant tone at odds with his harsh words. It’s endearing but also confusing. Andrew being sick doesn’t warrant this reaction.
“I can and I will,” Andrew counters. “You are not going to risk your career, one I know you love, because I’m a little sick.”
“You passed out on the bathroom floor.”
“I didn’t pass out,” Andrew protests.
“Then what the fuck happened?
“I was exhausted and fell asleep.”
“So exhausted that you, the man who likes comfort and routine and hates being dirty, fell asleep on the floor near the toilet. That isn’t much fucking better.” Nicki curls that big hand of his around the back of Andrew’s head, almost petting Andrew now.
“It’s not a big deal, Nicki.”
“It is to me,” he says, the hand at the back of Andrew’s hand shaking. “Do you have any fucking idea what went through my head when I saw you on the floor?”
“Oh,” Andrew exhales, suddenly understanding. Nicki was worried.
“Yeah,oh,” Nicki echoes sarcastically. “I thought you died.”
“That is slightly dramatic.”
“You were on the fucking floor.”
“I threw up,” Andrew admits. “I don’t like puking, it takes it out of me. I know no one likes it, but the sensory experience is—bad. It's deeply deregulating, and after I was done, I just…laid down and fell asleep. I’m sorry I worried you.”
“Maybe we should go to the hospital,” Nicki says, smoothing his hand over Andrew’s hair.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“But—”
“It’s not necessary, trust me. Sometimes people just get sick and feel like shit. Which I definitely do.”
Acknowledging it seems to make all his symptoms rise to the forefront as the need to focus on Nicki becomes less intense, and he realizes how bad he feels. His neck still aches from the floor, his throat stings, his entire body is hot and flushed and the nausea, while not as intense, is strong enough that Andrew wishes someone would knock him unconscious again. He hates when his body doesn’t feel like his own. The loss of control is nearly unbearable.
