Luke awakened out of a drug-induced haze as Tate slipped into bed behind him and curled his slight frame around Luke's larger one.
The early morning light illuminated the edges of the blackout curtain over the hotel room's picture window. Luke's head was congested. His tongue and the back of his throat were thickly coated from all the gunk that flowed down his throat. He had often debated with his brother Hong Gi which was worse—death or a common cold. Today, it felt like the cold.
He cleared his throat before speaking, but his words still came out as a husky rasp. "Are you okay?"
Tate snuggled closer, draping his arm across Luke's waist. "No."
"What happened?"
"Later. I need to sleep."
"Umm."
