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The world looks different under the covers.
A light breeze comes through the open window, and Day's ankles are warmed by the sun. It's summer, and it's hot, but not enough to feel uncomfortable with the thin bed sheet pulled over his head. Through it, the world is the color of sweet pale honey, every trembling edge blurred and melting. Despite the dark rain clouds dancing at the corners of his vision, for a moment Day almost feels like he's back outside, lying under the canopy of the pink trumpet tree in their garden.
It used to be his favorite place to read.
Downstairs a chair gets scraped over the floor, a door clicks open. Day hears the sound of soft footsteps coming up the stairs and already knows who they belong to.
That’s not something he would have been able to tell, before, but now he can easily recognize the inhabitants of the house by the way they move. His mother is feather-light and hesitant, her feet dragging a little behind her, while his brother's heels come down in a quick marching tempo, hurried and brisk.
For the longest time, it had only been the three of them, but these days there's a new set of footsteps in the symphony of the house, a steady beat that reminds Day of his own heart.
Day closes his eyes, and his lashes graze the sheet.
The footsteps reach his room, carrying the acrid smell of cigarette smoke. They linger in the doorway only for a second before walking inside and coming to a stop next to the bed.
"Day," Mork says.
Day swallows the urge to tell him to leave him alone. It usually has the opposite effect anyway, so he remains silent, hoping to convince Mork that he's asleep.
"Day," Mork calls again. Then, as if he can read Day's mind, he adds: "I know you're not sleeping. Do you plan to come out of there at all today?"
Day keeps saying nothing, just to be contrary.
The cover being lifted from his face doesn't take him by surprise. In the few weeks since Mork had taken over as his caretaker, Day thinks he has come to know what to expect. What he doesn't expect, however, is the mattress dipping next to his hand and the sudden warm length of a body settling down against his side.
Day startles, eyes flying open and moving around uselessly. All they give him back is a greyish nothingness.
"What are you doing?” he asks, still stunned.
“If you’re not coming out, then I don’t have any choice but to get in," Mork answers, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. His arm presses firmly against Day's own, skin to skin. "Move over a little, would you?”
In any other circumstances, Day would answer him by kicking him off the bed. He's not prepared for the shiver that runs down his back, for the way every nerve in his body seems set alight by the closeness, the hair on his arms and legs standing up in response. He scoots toward the center of the bed without a word.
Mork twists and wiggles until he seems to find a position he's comfortable in, then the sheet is placed back over Day's head and its yellow color turns the world bright and dream-like again.
"It's nice under here," Mork remarks, his voice sounding way too cheerful.
The smell of cigarettes is overwhelming now, but under that Day catches the hints of fabric softener, tangy and fresh. It makes Day feel lightheaded and wrong-footed in a way that reminds him of those first few days after the loss of his sight, when taking a step around his room seemed like a jump into the void, his feet stumbling on themselves and making him knock against furniture anywhere he turned.
"Are you really going to stay here all day?" Day asks, trying to recover some kind of balance.
"Well, are you?" Mork shoots back immediately.
Day grits his teeth. He can hear the gentle reprimand behind those words, the attempt at coaxing him into getting out and doing something, into living. They've been here before. Day has grown accustomed to the bickering and the kind of push and pull that's become typical of their relationship, but he's not in the mood to fight today. He just wants some peace and quiet.
“Then why not?" Mork continues after a while, taking Day's prolonged silence as a sign that he's indeed not going anywhere. "It’s easier to take care of you like this. Maybe I’ll even be able to catch up on some sleep.”
To prove his point he stretches out, heel digging into the mattress and back arching off the bed. One of his arms brushes against Day's side as he brings both of them up over his head to extend them to their full length. The sheet above them ripples and waves with each movement, letting in small gusts of fresh air. When Mork pulls his arms back down, his hand falls on top of Day's own and stays there.
Day's fingers twitch. He wants to yank his hand away, but that would feel too much like defeat.
"Suit yourself," he scoffs, and resolves to ignore Mork for as long as he can.
It proves harder than he imagined. Day is hyper-aware of every rise and fall of his chest, every small twitch of his body. The fact that Mork isn't really doing anything, for once, except breathing and lying there next to him, somehow makes it all the worse. The sun has moved up in the sky and is now warming Day's thighs. The clock in the hallway ticks time away. Mork's socked foot bumps against Day's naked one, and all Day wants to do is run.
He desperately needs a distraction, and maybe that's why he starts talking.
"As a kid," he says, "I used to get sick all the time."
Mork shifts, and Day can feel his curious gaze warming the side of his face. That's not really what he wanted, so he hurries to add: "It's one of the reasons I picked up sports. To become stronger, have better resistance." He slides his hand away from where it's still trapped under Mork's and presses it against the sheet right above his eyes. This close, he can recognize the blurred edges of his fingers. "I still got sick from time to time, of course. Whenever that happened, I’d hide under the covers like this, waiting. Eventually, my mom would slip in and stay with me until I got better." Day spreads out his fingertips and moves his hand further away from his face, until it gets swallowed by the darkness. "There's no getting better this time, though," he concludes, dropping his hand on his stomach and letting the sheet fall back onto his face. "I guess that's why she doesn't come to my room anymore."
He's not sure why he told Mork this. He hates being pitied and that's the reason he picked Mork as his caretaker in the first place, because he is the only person who doesn't treat him like he's made of glass. Things would be so much easier if he acted like everybody else, and maybe that's what Day is aiming for: making him slip, so he'd have an excuse to send him away.
Mork shuffles close to him and suddenly there's a hand splayed over Day's chest, grounding him. "It's okay," Mork says. His voice is sweet and soft, his breath warm against Day's cheek. If Day turned his head, he thinks they'd be close enough for Day to see the hazy outlines of Mork's face. He makes sure to remain stock still, his treacherous heart beating so loud that when Mork speaks again Day almost doesn't hear him.
"I'll stay here until you feel like coming out," Mork says, "then I'll take you to her."
Day wants to scream. He wants to scream and lash out and curse at the world. He wants to break something, wants to kick Mork out of the bed and yell at him to leave and never come back, but there's a lump in his throat and a wetness forming at the corners of his eyes. He shuts them as tight as he can to prevent the tears from falling. His hand finds Mork's on his chest, and Day holds on.