Cayson peeked inside the curtain. “Everything okay in here? I held off security but, um...”
“We’re good,” Ford said, letting Brian up. They wiped their eyes, neither of them embarrassed.
After Brian reluctantly accepted the two pain reliever tablets, Cayson let him go. All he needed now was air. About fifteen minutes worth… then he needed Sway. Ford was the most important person in his life, and that was how it had always been. But there was room for another. It was the only piece of the puzzle missing. He hadn’t heard from Sway all day, his last text had been last night. And all he’d said was ‘goodnight. Miss you.’
Brian walked towards Cayson. He inhaled then asked in the gravelliest tone he’d ever heard, “Sway?”
Cayson’s eyes widened, then he looked back and forth between him and Dana. “It’s good to hear your voice, Brian. God, you guys are so damn amazing,” Cayson said softly.
Brian tried to manage a smile, but he’d thank Cayson later, right now, he wanted answers. “Up.” Brian pointed to the upper floors where Sway worked. He realized he was sticking to one syllable words, getting used to the unusual tickling sensation in his throat.
Cayson frowned. “No. I sent Sway home yesterday. He was really sick.”
“What?” Brian ground out.
“You didn’t know?” Cayson went over to Ford’s IV and pushed the morphine pump before Ford could protest. Cayson ignored the grumbles, continuing to talk to Brian, “there’s a nasty bug going around the hospital, and I’m afraid Sway caught it. Oh, he was so upset. I have another charge nurse filling in for him. You know he doesn’t like anyone else being responsible for his patients.”
“Squirt is sick?” Dana said appearing just as confused as Brian. “That little shit. He does this. He can take care of other people all day, but won’t let anyone take care of him.”
Well, that was no longer the case. “No,” Brian said. He squeezed his brother’s shoulder, silently telling him he’d check in on him later, and left out the room.
Dana yelled. “Lay his sneaky ass out for me too, B!” just as Cayson scolded him about not being in a damn football stadium. Then the last thing he heard before the ER doors opened, was his brother grumble, “I’m going to sleep.”
Brian stepped out into the cool night air and breathed deeply. He had his brother, he had his team… he had his voice back. Now, he was going to get the rest of his life.
“Sway,” Brian said it again, but it sounded no smoother than before. He hoped Sway liked it gritty and raw.
“You need to get up so I can change these sheets, Squirt.”
Sway buried his steaming, sweaty face farther into the pillow, the covers pulled up tight to his throat. Why did they keep pestering him? He didn’t care about the sheets. Washing them or changing them wasn’t going to make them feel any better. He still felt as if he was sleeping on Fred Flintstone’s bed. Or was it his body that felt like one hard slab of stone?
“Leave me alone. I just wanna sleep,” Sway whined. He sounded so pathetic, but he didn’t care.
“Those nasty germs will just keep recirculating if you don’t kill them, shuga’. Come on, I’ll be quick, I swear.” Tweetie stood by his bed, holding a fresh pile of linen.
“You don’t have to take care of me. Just make sure Mom is good.” Sway hurt so much, even his voice hurt. He sighed and continued, “Just let me sleep, please.”
“No. And you stink like all-to-be damned. You go shower and I’ll change the sheets and Lysol everything.” Tweetie turned in a circle and mumbled, “Or fumigate.”
Sway’s head protested him saying another word. How was he going to go in the bathroom and shower when he could barely lift his head? He’d given up long ago trying to make it to the bathroom to throw up, instead using his wastebasket. Then he’d have to slowly drag his ass to clean it up since he kept refusing to let his mom or Tweetie help. He couldn’t fathom infecting his mother and preventing her from getting her much-needed corticosteroid injection. Besides, he could take care of himself. He knew what to do.
“Tweets, just go and you won’t have to smell it.” Sway turned over and curled into a ball under his scratchy sheets—it probably wasn’t the sheets—he was just filthy. He hadn’t slept all night and he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in two days. He was starving. His stomach heaved and convulsed at the tiniest bit of broth or water he drunk. He was weak, and he couldn’t get any stronger if he didn’t eat, or at a minimum, get some fluids in him. He’d even tried some Pedialyte popsicles, but those had come up too.