Who Goes Where
With a little sigh, Courfeyrac seated himself on the old wicker chair beside Feuilly's bed. "It's bloody well falling apart. This whole place is falling apart around our ears."
Feuilly narrowed his eyes, trying to sit up. "I don't care if I am sick--what are you doing? What are you planning? I don't trust you, man. What have you there?"
"Oh." Courfeyrac looked absentmindedly at the bowl. "This--oh. I bought some soup.. I bought the bowl." He frowned. "The man who owned the cafe was very disagreeable. He made me pay the most outlandish price, claiming it was his best bowl. Well, that's all the same to me. You look quite ill. Lie down, won't you?"
Coughing, Feuilly lay down, but he kept his eyes fixed on Courfeyrac. "You bought the bowl? You would."
Courfeyrac sniffed. "It's very good soup. It's--actually, I'm not all that sure what it is. That looks like a clam, doesn't it? My dear Mater always gave me soup when I was ill."
"With clams? It looks rather nice."
"Shall I spoon-feed you? This'll be sweet." Courfeyrac allowed himself a grin. "Yes, I like the idea very much. It's like having a small child of my very own."
"Whom, when he is well, you sleep with." Feuilly's eyebrows shot up. "I can feed myself, thank you. I'm not an invalid. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of me."
"That's why I'm here making sure you stay alive. Of course." Looking acutely uncomfortable, Courfeyrac crossed and uncrossed his legs. "Blasted chair. Anyway, I think there're vegetables. The vegetables will be good for you. Here we are." He produced a spoon from his pocket, and dipped it in the bowl. "Open up."
"You're not serious?"
"Quite serious. Do you really think your hands are steady enough to hold anything? Do you think for a moment, M. Feuilly, that you can get yourself well? Yes, indeed, Damien, I'm serious. Open your mouth."
Feuilly heaved a sigh. "Very well." He was rather pale, he reflected, looking at his hands. And they were shaking. And true, the fever had just receded. He opened his mouth wide, trying pointedly to ignore the grin spreading over Courfeyrac's face. "Hm. I think you're right. It was a clam."
"Oh, splendid." Courfeyrac began sorting through the contents of the bowl with his spoon. "I think I'll see if I can find one for myself. I'm fond of clams, really."
"You're mad, that's what you are." Feuilly broke off, coughing, and lay back on his pillow, fuming. "This damned cough! And you--you really think I'm funny like this, don't you?" He pointed his finger accusingly in the general direction of Courfeyrac's face.
"Not in the least," said Courfeyrac solemnly. "I think you need to sleep a little more, cheri."
"I do not like you. As of now, I dislike you very much indeed." Obediently, Feuilly closed his eyes, but continued speaking. "I hope you choke on a clam."
"I'll try not to," Courfeyrac murmured, still sorting through the soup. Feuilly fell asleep.
A little later, Courfeyrac looked up, and rested the back of his hand against Feuilly's forehead. "Good God, cheri, you're so hot. You talk as though you're well, but you don't get any cooler. Why don't you get cooler?" Annoyed, he put the bowl aside.
Feuilly was certainly still ill. It upset Courfeyrac quite a lot, far more than he would have expected for just a fever. The trouble was, when Feuilly was ill, he spoke in his sleep and wouldn't stop moving, and it was all very disconcerting. He sometimes imagined things, and he sometimes wept. It bothered Courfeyrac. Despite his gaiety, he had noticed he was becoming annoyingly overprotective of Feuilly, and even a stupid illness making Damien cry bothered him. He kicked the bed lightly.
"Bloody get well, why don't you? I can't keep buying soup bowls; I'll end up penniless and we'll live in the streets together," he informed the sleeping Feuilly. "We'll sleep in the Luxembourg until they throw us out, and I'll wear second-hand clothing. And that'll be a sacrifice, cheri, as I hate wearing anything not made especially for me. Did you know when I was still a member of the Courfeyrac family, they had me wear my elder brother's clothes? Do you know what lack of taste he had? Do you have any idea how much bloody wool there was in his wardrobe? But I'm not a Courfeyrac any longer," he added. "They threw me out, for being an ignorant Bohemian. I prefer it, really I do. I'm not a Courfeyrac, I'm a me, or something. And I like it better than living in a place so large one could lose oneself going from the bedroom to the library. I like your disgusting excuse for an apartment, do you hear me? I like the mildew and the mold and the cobwebs. But I want you to get well. It's driving me mad. I don't like arguing with you. All we do is fight, because you don't want to be in bed and I don't want you collapsing on the streets. Isn't that an idiotic paradox? So you must do me a favour and get well, or I shall go mad and they'll lock me up somewhere far away from you." He sighed, and fell silent.
Feuilly smiled sleepily. "Oh, I don't know. They may lock us up together."
"If you've been awake, I'll strangle you for being a cliche, and for listening to me. Bloody Damien."
"I'd kiss you and try to cheer you up if I didn't know I'd make you as ill as I am," Feuilly said. "In the meantime, what have you done with the soup? I must get well, mustn't I?"
Courfeyrac grinned. "Aha! The man's making an effort at last. Soup! Soup!" He grabbed the bowl and spooned soup into Feuilly's mouth, which caused Feuilly to sputter rather a lot.
"I shan't get well that way!"
"You shan't get well any other way, either! Come now! Eat your soup!"
With a dreadful lot of noise and quite a bit of spilling, the soup was at last eaten. Feuilly curled back up in the bed, and Courfeyrac looked at him wistfully.
"I do so wish you'd get well," he said.
"I will eventually," said Feuilly drowsily. "Just wait."
"I'm waiting, I'm waiting," Courfeyrac said grouchily. "You'll see. I'll wait more patiently than anyone ever has. I'll grow a beard. I'll be absurdly out of my character. All right?"
"Lovely." Feuilly yawned and coughed.
Courfeyrac snorted, and shifted himself in the wicker chair. "Isn't it? Listen, I'm taking good care of you, so--"
Feuilly had fallen asleep.
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