Dangerous Days

Steven knew something was wrong the second he saw Conrad’s Mustang in the motel parking lot. It was two-thirty in the afternoon—Conrad didn’t get home from his job at the garage until after five. The room was dark, curtains pulled closed and the television off. Condensation from the AC frosted the windows. Steven made out Conrad’s shape under the bed covers. He flipped on the bathroom light, did his business and when he came out, Conrad stirred. “Huh?” His voice was froggy and thick. “Conrad, what’s wrong man? You sick again?” “Yeah, my head hurts.” Conrad eased up to sit against the headboard. He rubbed his neck. “And I’m so stiff and sore.” Steven jumped on the bed. “I’ll make you stiff; come here.” He reached to tickle Conrad’s ribs but the other man stopped him. “Don’t! It hurts.” He winced as he held Steven’s hands away from him. “You really are sick.” He frowned and put one palm on Conrad’s sweaty forehead. “What time did you get home?” “Around eleven-thirty.” Conrad leaned his head on Steven’s shoulder. “I’m so achy.” “You sound like you’ve got that cold back. Come on, aspirin and fluids for you, dude.” Steven grabbed a juice from the mini-fridge they had bought the previous month. He snagged three aspirin—three should be about right for someone Conrad’s size—and sat down again on the bed. “Take these for me, come on.” Conrad grimaced as he swallowed. “Take a few sips for me.” Steven cajoled him and lifted the apple juice bottle higher. “Okay. Go back to sleep. Will the TV bother you?” “Nuh-uh, go ahead.” Steven kissed him, his touch gentle, not pressing. “You probably shouldn’t do that. I don’t want you to catch this flu thing.” “Give me everything you got, Conrad, I can take it.” Steven growled a little, hoping to get a warm response. His body was used to an afternoon session in bed and his pants felt too snug. Conrad rolled away from him. Steven sighed and tucked the covers over Conrad’s wide shoulders. He changed out of his dirty restaurant uniform, smelling the onions and spices on himself. He stacked his dirty laundry into the basket, put away some clean clothes they’d washed over the weekend. Conrad liked things neat and tidy—he’d learned that in the three months they’d lived together in this motel so he tried to overcome his own sloppy tendencies. He refilled the fridge with more juice and sodas, then settled on the bed and watched stupid daytime TV shows, one hand on Conrad’s hip, flipping channels with the other.