The Photographer (Ignazio Boschetto Fanfiction)

Chapter 32

Chapter 32

          I woke late into the morning underneath the blankets, and after a moment I remembered shivering during the night and being coaxed to slip my feet underneath the sheets so I could be covered.

I also recalled the compress on my forehead being changed twice and having my temperature taken again early in the morning.

          I opened my eyes and then closed them again against the bright light of the window.

          I still felt unbearably hot, and after a moment of mental persuasion I kicked the covers off and lay still, letting the weariness wash over me. I felt so weak, and I didn’t even bother to open my eyes when the door opened quietly and then closed.

          I listened as the figure crossed the room and then sat on the side of the bed. The person leaned into me and softly kissed my cheek, and I took in his scent.

          “Ignazio,” I whispered weakly, comforted by his presence.

          “Hey, my dear, how are you feeling?”

          I groaned feebly.

          “That’s what I thought. Here, take the thermometer.”

          I opened my mouth and let him slip the thermometer under my tongue.

          “Ignazio, please let the curtains down. It’s too bright.”

          He immediately obeyed, and then came back and sat next to me, taking my face in his hands.

          “Your cheeks are red, and you still feel hot.”

          “I feel as though someone has used my body as a tea steep and dunked me in boiling water a few times.”

          “Hmm…good metaphor.”

          I didn’t bother to tell him it was a simile.

          “This is really going to last a few days?” I groaned.

          “Shh…shh…you’re okay. It’ll be okay. Just relax. Wait a few minutes and we’ll see what your temperature is. Are you hungry?”

          “Far from it.”

          “Okay. Just relax.”

          He took my hand and held it quietly as I lay on my back, eyes closed as I bore the stifling heat.

          Soon he took the thermometer from my mouth and shielded my eyes with his hand as he pulled back the curtain over the window to read it.

          “Back up to one-hundred three,” he said softly, and then dropped the curtain. “I’ll get you some medicine from Barbara.”

          When he closed the door behind him and the room was dark once more, I opened my eyes and looked around. I lifted my head slightly and saw a blanket and a pillow on the carpet beside the bed, Ignazio’s shoes beside mine next to the door.

          I smiled softly and lowered my head back onto the pillow, and after a minute he was back.

          “Here,” he said, and I weakly took the pills he offered me and then handed him back the glass of water, which he set beside the bed.

          We were quiet, with him sitting beside me and gently smoothing my hair again and again, gazing down at me.

          I felt hot and weak and tired, and I didn’t feel like doing anything other than lying there in the dim room with Ignazio beside me. But as I closed my eyes and let Ignazio stroke my hair, I thought about what having the flu would mean for the next few days.