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English
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Published:
2024-09-12
Completed:
2024-09-21
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3,710
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2/2
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And at once, I knew I was not magnificent

Summary:

He let himself break for just one second, pressing his cheek to the dark curls, before sighing and leaning back. “You better get well, quick, you hear?”

Chapter Text

When they get back to the boathouse, there was a crowd of reporters so thick that he lost sight of Don almost immediately, which is saying something, really. He stopped to answer a few questions as he pushed his way through, saying that his boys weren’t ones to let a bad lane in a course ruin their shot, that his boys gave it everything they had and wasn’t that amazing to see, but when he was finally past the horde and in the relative peace of the boathouse it still took him a moment to spot Don.

Ulbrickson and Pocock were knelt over something in the corner that on first glance looked like a pile of tarp but, on second glance, Bobby could see was his stroke, curled on the floor and shivering uncontrollably under a blanket pulled from God-knows-where.

“You’re alright, son,” Pocock said, his hand patting gently at the miserable figure. “You did it. We’ll get you back to a proper bed soon.”

“I don’t know whether I ought to hope you remember that race or not,” Ulbrickson muttered. He squeezed one of Don’s ankles where they poked out from beneath the blanket and then did his best to tuck the fabric around them.

Bobby’s chest ached as he approached, something akin to the way his lungs felt after a long run or a cold morning but somehow worse, because there was also worry nestled there like a thistle.

“Is he awake?” he asked, his voice coming out tight in a way it hadn’t just been with the reporters outside.

“The driver is just pulling the bus around,” Ulbrickson answered instead.

Bobby knelt down beside them. Only minutes before, it seemed, Don had been smiling in disbelief as Bobby placed the wreath around his head. Now his eyelids were fluttering, his forehead covered in a sheen of sweat.

“I’ll stay with him, coach,” Bobby said.

Ulbrickson looked at him keenly and then stood, giving way. “Might need a couple of hands to help him out to the bus.”

Bobby glanced around until he spotted two other members of the crew. “Hey, fellas,” he called out to Shorty and Joe who were leaned up against a table, both looking still out of breath and half in pain but elated as well, grinning like fools. “Come give us a hand here, would you?”

“Jesus, Donny,” Shorty said as he came to stand over him. “Didn’t even realize that was you under there.”

“Is he even awake?” Joe asked, eyebrows pinched.

Don mumbled something incomprehensible, and Bobby rubbed at his arm, hating that he could feel the shaking muscles underneath two sweatshirts and a blanket. “Sort of, I guess.” Bobby replied.

“Hallo?” came a call then from the doorway to the building, the now familiar driver standing with his hand in a wave.

“Right, the bus is here, Donny. Let’s get you up. Just a little while longer until we’ll get you some tea or hot soup or whatever the hell you want, got it?”

With some further nudging and pulling, they managed to get the boy up on shaky legs, Shorty and Joe with Don’s arms around their shoulders and Bobby hovering just behind.

“I’ve got your back, Don, don’t you worry,” Shorty said with exaggerated cheer, squeezing his hand tight around Don’s shoulder.

“Thought you saved that line just for me, Shorty,” Joe teased, huffing slightly a Don’s head lolled towards him.

“I would have if Donald here hadn’t blacked out on us.”

“’M fine,” came a slurred protest from Don – the first real thing close to words he’d said in the last hour.

“Oh, never mind!” Shorty said dramatically, angling his head back to look at Bobby. “He said he’s fine. Maybe he doesn’t need our help after all.”

“Come on, bud. Just a few more feet.”

When they got on the bus, Bobby slipped in beside Don on the seat. He let himself press up against him shoulder to thigh, for once not letting himself think about any implications. The stroke needed warmth, and that at least was something Bobby could give.

“You don’t have to head back, yet,” Bobby said as Joe and Shorty sat down across the aisle.

“Nah, I’d like a nice shower after all that,” Joe shrugged.

“If I go now, anyways, I might be able to sneak in some good grub before Ulbrickson gets back,” Shorty agreed. “And besides, how do you plan to get Don all the way up to bed by yourself?”

Bobby frowned at that. “I’d manage.”

“Sure, Bob.”

In the end, they managed to get Don up the stairs and into bed, piled him with blankets, and made him drink a full mug of broth, which he amazingly managed to keep down, before Joe and Shorty, after a fair amount of protest, left Bobby alone to watch over Don.

“You should be out celebrating,” Don mumbled, thankfully more coherent now that he was slightly warmer both inside and out.

“I don’t really think there’s any celebrating happening yet. I mean, Joe’s just in the shower.”

“Still…”

“I’d rather be here.”

Don pinched his eyes shut as a cough rattled through him, and when he spoke again his voice sounded cracked and painful. “Why?”

“I don’t want you to be alone.”

He shook his head, looking absolutely miserable, “Seems like every time I get sick these days it lasts for ages.”

Bobby hummed, placing a hand on the pile of blankets somewhere near his leg. He had realized it, somewhere in his brain, that something wasn’t quite right, that Don hadn’t ever really been well the whole summer but hearing him say it – it was like a brick had lodged itself in his chest. “I know what that’s like. I spent my whole childhood sick.”

“Jesus, Bob,” Don said, pushing himself to sit up straighter, “You shouldn’t be here, then. I don’t want you to catch this.”

“If it was that contagious all the guys in this room would be hacking away as well, and they’re not. ‘Sides, we’re done racing and have a goddamn gold medal to show for it. If I catch it now, who cares.”

“I don’t want to mess up your travels.”

Bobby huffed, “Look, Don, do you want to be alone? ‘Cause if you do, I swear I’ll leave, but…”

“No.” he admitted, “Not really.”

“Then stop arguing. You hardly talk this much when you’re well.”

Don didn’t say anything in reply, but he closed his eyes again and tilted his head back onto the pillow, breathing out deeply.

“You think you can drink another mug of soup?”

“No.”

Bobby sighed, “Okay. Get some sleep then, bud. I’ll be here if you need me.”

“’S weird, you watching me sleep…”

“I’m not sure I really care if it is or isn’t right now.”

Don grumbled but sank deeper into the covers. Bobby moved his hand until he felt the knobby bone of Don’s knee through the layers and squeezed gently. He stayed there, unmoving, for a while, but as Don’s breathing calmed from a rattle to a deeper, slower pull, Bobby got up to fetch his book from the other room and a cool towel from the bathroom. He couldn’t have been gone more than five minutes, but when he returned, he found Don lying on his side, the blankets thrown off his chest.

Bobby tried to tuck them back in, but Don pushed them back. “Burning up…” he mumbled.

“That’s ‘cause you’ve got a fever, Donny. You’ll want the blankets.”

“Just… a couple minutes.”

Bobby looked down at him, at his face pinched in misery, his shirt soaked through with sweat and arms covered in gooseflesh. He set the towel on Don’s forehead and watched as his eyebrows relaxed slightly. “Alright,” he said, and sat back down in the chair next to him, his book already forgotten on the nightstand.

Seated, he could no longer see Don’s face, just the curve of his back, the peaked ridges of his spine that surely wouldn’t have been visible even days before. As if on instinct, as if a childhood spent in an out of bed similarly ill rose unbidden from his hands, he placed his fingertips against the damp fabric of Don’s shirt and slowly began to run his fingernails up and down his back.

Don shuddered, a sound somewhere between a whimper and a wounded dog escaping his throat. Bobby stilled his hand, “Alright?” he asked.

Don nodded shakily.

“My mom used to spend what felt like hours scratching my back when I was sick,” he said softly. He had never before felt like talking about this part of his life – all these years later it was still a little too tender – but with Don things were always different, and with him so vulnerable before him, Bobby felt he could be vulnerable back. “Sometimes it was the only thing that seemed to help. It couldn’t really stop the coughing or the aches, but it was… calming, I guess – a distraction. And even now, when I’m sick, that’s all I really want, you know?”

His skin was scorching beneath his shirt, and even with just his fingernails touching him, Bobby could feel the heat radiating from him. “You’re gonna be alright, Donny,” Bobby continued, “All you’ve gotta do for the rest of your time here is sleep and recover. Well, I guess you’ve gotta get your medal, too, but if you can’t stand, we’ll all just hold you up, okay?”

Don tried to nod again, but a cough overtook him, his shoulders shaking as his chest heaved. Bobby kept the same rhythm on his back, hoping it was calming, hoping it was enough. “That’s it, Don, honey, just breathe,” and Christ, he was becoming his mother with endearments like that, but he couldn’t think too much about that now, not with Don still laboring for breath. “In and out, that’s it, just like we’re racing. Come on, there you are… I think your couple of minutes are up, too,” he said, finally taking his hand away when Don’s coughing died down and pulling the blankets back up to his chin.

He let him be, then, watching for a while longer until his breathing evened out and eyelids stopped fluttering, and then finally picked up his book to read for a while. It was only when he was dead sure that Don was asleep that he finally leaned close again, drawn to him like compass to north, and carded a hand through his hair, brushing the soaked curls back from his forehead.

“You did great today, Donny. I mean, you scared the shit out of me for a while there, but Jesus… once you were back with us, that was the best damn rowing I’ve ever seen. The boat was flying,” he whispered, “And I feel so lucky that you’re my stroke, you can’t even know. I love the lot of you, but… you’re sure something special.”

He let himself break for just one second, pressing his cheek to the dark curls, before sighing and leaning back. “You better get well, quick, you hear?”