𝓌𝑒 𝒻𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝒾𝓃 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝑜𝒸𝓉𝑜𝒷𝑒𝓇 ; 𝓈𝒶𝓅𝓃𝑜𝒷𝓁𝒶𝒹𝑒

[viii.] ;; 𝒶𝓊𝑔𝓊𝓈𝓉

it's the fifth day of august when nick decides they've been cooped up in the house too long. new flavours of coffee, specially made for the fall season, are swooping into coffee shops, and he makes a mental note to ask dave to come with him to the café later, check it out with him, taste the new flavours. he rolls over in his bed, stretches, body trembling, and he relaxes with a sigh, clicking his tongue. his mouth is irrationally dry – how the fuck is it so dry? – and it tastes disgusting.

with a sigh, he rolls out of bed, almost falling on his face, though he quickly straightens up, rubs the crust from his eyes and shuffles out of his room. god, he feels so faint- is faint the right word? nauseous? nauseous sounds better, more accurate. he sighs, pressing a hand to his forehead, scowling when his palm comes back wet with sweat.

nick must've gotten sick again.

which absolutely fucking sucks, because today is the day he planned on asking dave out, finally. after months of chickening out, of telling himself he'd do it tomorrow, he's finally going to do it. and now he can't, because he's sick and doesn't want to go out in public sick. he opens their medicine cabinet, gropes around for the tylenol as he yawns, eventually locating the pill bottle and popping it open. it might not help his sickness, but it'll help the disgusting, icky feeling pressing against his head and stomach, threatening to overflow.

he washes his face after he takes the tylenol, splashing cold water on his face so he doesn't sweat more, and cups some water in his hands, tipping his head back and drinking it. god, it hurts to swallow, but the cool water sliding down his esophagus helps soothe the burn, if only momentarily. nick hates being sick. he's always gotten sick easy, no clue why, he just does, and it's not fun. most times, it's simply just a common cold, but it's still annoying.

he licks his lips and shuffles back to his room on wobbly legs, collapsing on his bed with a shaky exhale and curling up under his blanket. he hopes he's better by tomorrow – the coffee date he'd planned can still happen soon.

he doesn't know how long he lays in his bed, drifting in and out of consciousness, but by the time he actually wakes up for good, the sun is peeking through the blinds, its harsh glare burning his eyes, and he hisses, pressing the heel of his palm against his eye and sitting up to face away. he sits there for a moment before realising the icky feeling in his chest has gone away, he feels refreshed and – surprisingly – not sick anymore. he still has a minor headache, but he can push through it. it must've just been late night sniffles or something.

he stands, stretches, tugs on sweatpants and leaves his room, letting the door close behind him. dave is already sitting on the couch, curled up underneath a blanket, a bowl of cereal in hand as he watches avatar: the last airbender. "aw, you started without me?" he says jokingly, and dave jumps, looking over to him with a smile and a shrug.

"well, yeah. you were asleep." nick huffs, moves into the kitchen to make himself a bowl of cereal (he spends fifteen minutes debating whether he should get captain crunch or cinnamon toast crunch, and eventually decides to just get frosted flakes), then shuffles back into the living room, sitting down on the couch. with practised motions, dave is already shifting, accommodating the space nick now takes up beside him.

as they eat and watch, nick momentarily debates asking him the question that's been searing his throat, that he's practically been dying to ask.

he doesn't. he's pretty sure nothing but pure anxiety is radiating off of him in waves – asking him shouldn't be this hard, but it is and there's absolutely nothing he can do about it except

they're well into the first season – aang is at the northern water temple now, with sokka and katara, learning how to bend from a professional – when he finally gets enough courage to ask.