𝐈𝐍𝐊 - JAMIE CAMPBELL BOWER

18

     The drive to Tom's house is as quick as it is nerve-wracking. You're practically sitting on the steering wheel while Jamie sits slouched back in his seat, head against the window. He hasn't said anything in a while, not that you were expecting him to. What would you say if you were him?

     To make things worse, his condition wasn't getting any better. The pasty tone to his skin was still prominent even after the meager gulps of water you had to practically force him to swallow. In addition to that, he looked as though he could barely keep his eyes open.

     You nudge him softly. "Jamie," you murmur.

     He doesn't realize that you've parked the car until he opens his eyes. After a few slow and groggy blinks, his blue irises bounce around the unfamiliar scenery. A lazy hum escapes his lips as he brings his dazed gaze back to your worried one.

     He was so out of it.

     "Can I... can I feel your forehead really quick?" you ask after a moment of hesitation.

     The nod of his head is so slight that you would've thought you'd imagined it if not for the hum of approval he gives you. Without wasting another second, you take your hand and rest it gently against his smooth skin. For a moment, you fear he might melt away at your touch—crumple against your fingertips or shred like paper.

     What were you feeling for? Surely, he was made up of the same organs you were, right? He was living and breathing and human and very much alive. His temperature should be the same as any other human being. Besides, you've touched him before, why would this be any different?

     It still shocks you to feel the heat of his forehead against your palm. Not because it was another reminder that he was real, but because he had a raging fever. He doesn't seem to notice this either, which causes you to frown.

     "You feel a little bit warm," you mutter to yourself more than to him. His eyes were closed again, and at this point, you didn't even know if he could hear you anymore.

     It turns out he could. The overly facetious scoff he lets out tells you so. "I'm smoking hot, I know," he teases.

✧ ˚ 　· 　　 .

      "I'm sorry. I know this is super last minute but he doesn't have anywhere else to go."

     Now, you were seated in Tom's living room. It was a lot homier than yours, with soft couches and original art pieces that decorated the walls. Tom had the kind of apartment that you saw in movies. The one that wasn't the nicest but wasn't the dirtiest either. The kind that was just right. The kind that showed the chasm between the real and the unreal, the relatable and the overly fabricated.

     "No, it's all right." He continues sipping his mug of warm tea as he leans against the wall. He appeared nonchalant as if this was an everyday occurrence.

     You bite your lip. "So... could he stay here a while?"

     Tom pauses, easing into the seat across from you. "Y/n, don't take this the wrong way, but... why again?"

     You sigh and let all the words come tumbling out without thinking. "Xander came home early and if Jamie's living with the both of us, I mean, that'll be crazy awkward, and I'll have to explain the whole situation to Xander and how in the world am I supposed to explain to the god of all things systematic and logical that Jamie came out of a typewriter?!"