Jordan didn’t touch the food. He had no appetite and Damiano was in no state to eat. Jordan gave him some water, careful not to make him choke and rubbing his throat to make him swallow.
By the evening, or what he guessed was evening, he was exhausted. Despite the antibiotics and the constant sponge baths Jordan was giving him, Damiano’s condition wasn’t getting better, his fever alarmingly high, and Jordan felt more panicky by the minute. What if he didn’t have an infection but something else? What if those assholes had kicked him too hard and he had internal bleeding?
“Don’t you dare die on me,” he whispered furiously, wiping sweat from Damiano’s dark brow. “Imagine how pleased your family will be if you die. You’re more spiteful than that, aren’t you?”
Damiano didn’t reply. He wasn’t completely unconscious: he lifted his eyelids sometimes, looking at him with glazed, feverish eyes. Jordan wasn’t sure he even recognized him, much less understood him, but Jordan still talked to him. It made him feel a little calmer. Even a delirious Damiano managed to keep the walls around them at bay.
When Jordan felt that his eyes could no longer stay open, he lay on his back and pulled Damiano half on top of him, keeping his hands on his biceps, to make sure Damiano didn’t turn on his back and aggravate his wounds further.
Jesus, he was heavy. He didn’t look all that heavy—all muscle and very little fat—but he was much heavier than Jordan had expected.
He had been half afraid that he would feel crushed and claustrophobic in this position, but to his relief, he didn’t. It was actually the opposite: he felt like there was a warm blanket over him, keeping the chill and the tiny room away, his world narrowing to the weight and heat of Damiano’s body, hot puffs of breath against his neck, and the heartbeat against his chest. He felt completely surrounded. And warm. So very warm and grounded.
He slept like the dead.
Chapter 11
The world was burning.
Or maybe it was him burning up. His back certainly felt on fire.
“Shh, don’t thrash so much, you’ll only open your wounds again.”
A voice. There was someone there. A soothing male voice speaking English. Hands stroking his hair.
He wanted to tell him to stop, but his mouth didn’t seem to be listening to his commands, and truth be told, the touch wasn’t entirely unpleasant, distracting him from the burning pain in his back.
“Huh, you like it. Who knew you could be tamed with something as simple as hair-petting?”
Damiano shook his head, trying to claw his way to consciousness, but the pain was just too intense to allow him to focus, and instead, he slipped into darkness.
The next time he became semi-awake, his hair was being stroked again.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” the same male voice said. “Petting your hair and cuddling your head against my chest. If only people in my department could see me now.” He laughed a little, but there was a broken, tight edge to it. “Don’t die. Please. I don’t think I can do it alone. I’m losing my mind already.”
Darkness again.
Fire. Fire eating his flesh from the inside. Fire burning along his back. The taste of ash in his mouth.
“What’s wrong? What is it? Are you thirsty? Is that it?”
Cool water against his burning, parched lips.
“Easy there,” the man said, stroking his hair. “That’s enough, we don’t want you to throw up again, though I don’t think you have anything to throw up in your stomach. Now sleep. You need to sleep—and wake up. Please.” The voice broke on the last word.
Darkness. Pain. Fire. Gentle hands stroking his hair and the same voice whispering nonsense, sometimes angry and tired, sometimes pleading and shaky.
“It’s all your fucking fault, you know. If you didn’t get me so worked up, I wouldn’t have overslept. I would have gone to the wedding, and you would be here, alone, dying without anyone to look after you—and—and…”
Darkness. Pain. Fire licking his insides. Fingers stroking his hair.
“I think I’m losing my mind. I’m not sure I’m even sleeping anymore or how much time has passed. I can’t—I can’t do this. I can’t breathe in here. I need you to wake up.” A shaky kiss pressed to the top of his head. Ragged breaths that sounded almost like sobs. “I need you to wake up. I need—I need you.”
***
Jordan had no idea how much he’d slept this time, but he jerked awake, panicky. He knew that something was different even before he fully woke up.
It took him a moment to realize what was different. Damiano’s body on top of him was no longer burning up.
“Buongiorno,” Damiano said into his neck, his voice rough like sandpaper. “Is there a reason I’m lying on top of you? Do I have to be worried for my virtue?”