Hibernating Protoplasms

When Paul got home from work, there was a lump of blankets in the middle of the bed that grunted vaguely when addressed. It also smelled like broth, Neo Citran, and Vicks Vapour Rub, and complained vociferously and stuffily when Paul flicked the light on.

“Oops.” Paul hit the switch again; the curtains had been drawn and the room fell into a wash of greys. Robbie, arms about Paul’s neck, signed a sleepy question against his shoulder; Paul nuzzled his curls absently.

“Michael, honey?”

The pile of blankets twitched at one end, heaved and bunched like Paul’s favourite game in gym class in kindergarten – the only thing he’d ever really liked – where everyone stood around the edges of a giant parachute and waved it up and down to look like the water.

“Okay, never mind,” Paul said quickly, “Don’t hurt yourself.” The amorphous shape stilled. It still hadn’t spoken, but somehow gave off the impression that it was displeased.

Robbie’s lids were drooping; Paul could feel the slow flutter of lashes against his neck, the warm slickness of drool from the fist the boy was most likely chewing. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay?” he called to the comforter monster. It didn’t reply.

He carried Robbie into the next room and set him in his crib; they were lucky in that Robbie liked taking naps and didn’t mind sleeping alone. Shannon, ‘Tony, and Jolene had all been restless sleepers and cried when left in their cribs, which made for many long nights.

Once tucked in, Robbie touched his middle finger to his forehead, brows furrowed. Paul nodded. “Daddy’s sick,” Paul said, reaching down to make sure that the blankets were folded neatly. “Not angry.”

The boy nodded, then raised his hand to his mouth, planted a sloppy kiss on his knuckles, then held it out to Paul. Paul smiled and touched his fingers. “I’ll give it to him,” he said, repeating the same gesture with his other hand and tapping the boy’s cheek. Robbie grinned, but his eyes looked heavy again.

Paul stopped by the kitchen to make some tea on the way back to the bedroom – Michael wouldn’t even notice the delay, he knew, not when in amorphous blanket protoplasm mode. It was lucky if he remembered he even had a husband at times like these. Quite the opposite of his best friend, who turned into the biggest child and whined and pouted until his girlfriend got sick of him pawing at her and demanding attention and sent him over for Michael to baby instead.

“I made you tea,” Paul said, perching on the edge of the bed. “It’s that spicy kind you like – that should help clear things up a bit. And I put honey and bee pollen and Echinacea in it because I wasn’t sure which one you wanted.”

The blanket-thing extended a pseudopod, then thought better of it and withdrew back into itself. Paul rolled his eyes. “You need to drink something, hon,” he pointed out. “Being sick is no fun but being sick and dehydrated is just going to make everyone cranky. Plus you’ll have to see a doctor and I know you hate them.”

Still no answer; Paul was about to dig through and find Michael’s face and pour the tea into his mouth directly when the lump moved. It was clumsy, like a giant fuzzy caterpillar making its way up a tree branch and not having very much luck. Eventually, Michael’s face made its way into the open, scrunched and displeased looking.

“Go away,” he croaked. “Plague. Ebola. West Nile. Necrotizing fasciitis.”

“You do not have flesh-eating disease,” Paul scoffed, recognizing that one from a list his little brother had tried to use to skip school. He sat on the edge of the bed, teacup balanced in one hand while he attempted to find the edge of the blankets and crawl in.

Michael grunted. “Leave the tea and go.”

“Sorry, love.” Paul finally peeled the corner of the covers away, scooting in. “The tea and Paul are a package deal and you’re not allowed to say no because I say so.”

Michael shrugged and grumbled, but let Paul pull him into a half-reclining position curled against his husband’s chest. Paul let him complain and held his hands steady around the teacup, smiling to himself.