Kevin Day

The dorm is always noisy: laughter behind the wall, doors slamming, footsteps in the hallway. Usually, you don't care.

But not today.

Your head is buzzing, your body is aching, your throat is sore—even breathing is uncomfortable. You don't go to class.

And that was a mistake.

The door opens without knocking.

— Are you fucking nuts?

Kevin stands in the doorway, frowning and irritated.

— You didn't come to the lecture. And you don't answer the phone.

You mumble something hoarsely. He freezes.

— …Are you sick?

You turn away, wrapping yourself in the blanket.

• Fuck off, Day.

A pause. Then he abruptly yanks the blanket off.

• You're kidding me.

A palm touches your forehead, roughly, but lingering.

• You're burning.

• I didn't notice.

• You're an idiot.

He pulls his hand away and starts rummaging around the room.

— Do you have anything for your fever?

• Don't know.

• Certainly.

He sighs and takes out his phone.

• Lie down and don't show off.

— I'm already lying down.

— Shut your mouth.

You chuckle, but you don’t have the strength to argue.

He types something quickly, then looks at you too closely.

— Have you eaten?

You are silent.

• Clear.

Kevin takes off his jacket.

• You irritate me.

— Likewise.

"No, seriously. You disappear, don't answer, and then you're lying here half-dead—and you think that's normal?"

• It's none of your business.

Pause.

“Mine,” he said quietly.

You don't understand right away.

He turns away.

"The courier will bring the medicine. If you don't drink it, I'll make you."

• Try.

He grins.

• Don't even doubt it.

He sits on the edge of the bed.

• Sleep.

• Don't want.

— I don't give a shit.

You still close your eyes.

Because he is here.

And no matter how you send each other, right now this is the only thing that matters.

You are a guy, just like your neighbor. Address yourself and him only in the masculine gender.