“Elia.”
He went quiet. And all I could hear was the noise and music in the background.
After a good minute that felt like an hour, he spoke.
“Y-yeah? What do you want?”
“I’m sorry to bother you. I did not mean to call, but I—I don’t have anyone else.”
There was nothing from him in the first few seconds, but then he spoke. “What happened?” His voice had a new edge, one that sounded urgent, and the other end of the line was shaky like someone was running or walking fast with the phone. I was too disoriented to decipher it.
“I need… help.”
The line disconnected the moment I spoke.
I groaned out a sigh, giving up as my phone dropped from my hand. I relieved my eyes of their stress and closed them again, allowing my body to succumb to the tiredness.
I was brought back into mild consciousness when I felt a hand on my forehead. The hand was soft, small, and warm, and a familiar smell—like my pillow, but stronger, nearer—filled my senses.
“Fuck, get some ice, D. He’s burning up.”
The sound of fast-retreating footsteps was what I heard next.
“I thought you said he was okay.” A female voice cut into the silence, and I heard some other footsteps.
“He was when I left this morning. He was perfect, in fact.” The hand—Zahra’s hand came to my cheek. “Elio?” she called softly. “I think he can hear us; he’s frowning.”
“So, not dying then.” Another voice cut in.
Her finger stroked my cheek, a shadow over me. “Hey, can you hear me?” she asked like she didn’t want anyone else in the room to hear her.
“Well, do you think he took something?” the female voice asked again, soft, concerned.
“No, Milk, he had been drinking… whiskey, and he looked tired, too, but he wasn’t this hot.”
“He still looks hot to me.”
“Jesus, Dog, I didn’t mean that kind of hot—I meant hot as in sick hot—like, temperature over-the-roof hot—”
“I know what you meant; just messing with ya.”
Someone touched my feet like they were feeling for something. “I think he has a fever, a bloody strong one; he’s cold on his feet.”
Zahra’s hand covered mine. “His hands too.”
Someone clapped, and my head banged. “It’s nothing that can’t be cured with fever soup.”
“What’s fever soup?”
“It’s soup that cures fever; it goes without saying, Milk.”
“The way you put it sounded like it’s a soup that causes fever, not cures it,” Milk responded.
“Why the fuck would I imply that? He’s already playing catch with a fucking fever, so when I say fever soup, it should have automatically clicked in that pink brain of yours that I meant one that cures it.”
“Is there one for causing it?” the one with the British accent spoke.
“Fucking hell, I’m friends with idiots.”
