Nochelle - Our Stories

N E W Y E A R S

~Post-TNS~

Richelle never gets sick. At least not since she was a kid and faked being healthy to go to dance because she wasn't missing class for a mere cold. It turned out to be the flu and she got half of her old studio infected, which is a fact that still makes Noah laugh to this day.

For all her pride in her health, she winds up sick on New Year's Eve of all days. Noah spends most of the day hovering and fetching whatever she needs; she spends most of the day in bed sleeping or hacking up her insides.

In the evening, while Noah searches through the kitchen cabinets for culinary inspiration, her voice, small and hoarse, calls out, "Noah?"

He pokes his head out, sees Richelle at the head of the hallway from their bedroom, and smiles, an automatic response to her presence. "I'm here. Do you need anything?"

"No... I still don't feel good." Noah's eyes dart across her. Her tangled hair hangs around her face, her skin is still too clammy and warm, and her eyes squint at him. She's clutching the blankets tightly around her body and they're dragging a bit on the floor where she hasn't quite hitched them high enough, which she hates. That she doesn't notice is testament to her condition. "But you should still go out."

"And leave you here to suffer alone? No way." Noah steps out from the kitchen and walks to her. His arm wraps around her blanketed body, turning them both around. "Get back in bed and I'll bring you some soup."

Richelle sniffles and then scowls at herself. If she wasn't suffering, Noah would find the gesture adorable; he still does, if he's being honest. "It's New Year's."

He starts walking her back to their bedroom. "And?"

"Everyone's having a party at James'."

"I'm not going without you and you're not leaving this apartment until you're better. So looks like we're both stuck here."

Noah helps her into the bed. Once she's lying down, he tucks the blankets back around her and pulls the comforter up. His heart pangs at the sight of her bundled up and miserable.

"I won't be very good company." 

"You're always good company." He kisses her forehead, letting his lips linger for a moment. She's still too warm. Not enough to take her to the hospital, he thinks, but still enough for him to be concerned and reluctant to leave her alone. He swallows the concern, she'll be okay, he just needs to be there for her and find a way to cheer her up some, to give her an impish smile. "Even when you snore."

The change is immediate, her frown turning into a scowl and her eyes narrowing slightly in challenge. "I don't snore."

He winks at her. "I'll be back with some soup."

"I don't snore, Noah!"

"Yes, you do!" He calls over his shoulder, laughing when she complains again. She doesn't, not really. Sometimes she snuffles in her sleep, little soft sounds that are on his top ten list of sounds, and sometimes her breathing gets noisy, but she doesn't snore. 

He makes her chicken noodle soup, the way his mum used to make when he was a kid, and brings it in. He stays while she eats, on the bed by her side, regaling her with stories about his childhood sick days, also known as an excuse to miss school, watch cartoons, and sleep in all day, smiling when she laughs in all the right places.

His only moment of true concern comes when her laughing morphs into a hacking cough. She waves off his fluttering hands. "I'm fine, Noah, really. It's just a cough."

"Just a cough, I know that." He repeats, hands falling by his side. He reminds himself that he's coughed that hard before and that it just sounds worse coming from Richelle because anything bad seems a thousand times worse when it happens to her.