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Let the records show that Techno is not homesick. He is away from home, and he is also sick. Those are two different, and completely distinct, states he is in right now.
Saying it is flu season in Bogotá wouldn't really be correct, because it would imply that there's a particular season when people get sick, instead of the city living in a constant epidemic year-round. From all the times he's called medical services—which has been more times than the average person. For someone that can fly, Phil sure has a tendency to fall down at every slightly uneven sidewalk, resulting in at least three sprained ankles a semester— he can't remember a single one that hadn't started with the automated message of 'we are sorry for the inconveniences, the service might take longer as Bogotá is currently experiencing a surge of respiratory viruses.'
Techno is now a proud member of this statistic. His head is killing him, a constant sharp ache behind his eyes, his snout keeps dripping, his throat—and all the way up to his eardrums— feels like it constricts painfully every time he so much as swallows a sip of water, and he is pretty sure his lungs are trying to exit his body in protest. There are very few times in his life where he has been envious of people without fur, especially since moving to a place that has been lovingly (or hatefully, depends on who you ask) dubbed as the fridge by the rest of the country, but the sweat makes it stick uncomfortably, and suddenly Techno wishes he was an animal with much less fur than a saino. Maybe being a hybrid of an actual pig would be nicer. Fresher. He wouldn't have such a pretty collar of white fur though, the sacrifices that must be made for fashion.
For the eighteenth time in the past half hour, he rolls over, groaning as he tries to get comfortable in his bed to no avail. He hasn't told his parents he is sick, no use worrying them, there isn't much they could do and it is just a common cold. He will just have to do his best to ignore the annoying nostalgia that resurfaces with every cough and ache—sticky in a different way than the sweat, more like fresh melcocha, sweet to the point of being empalagosas, scalding as they stick to the roof of his mouth. He pushes down the memories of his father sitting by his bedside reading to him in a deep, steady voice; of his grandmother pressing cold compresses to his head and bringing him all sorts of mejunjes, watching him to make sure he drank them even as he grimaced; of his mother running soft hands through his fur, whispering gentle prayers and songs so he could finally sleep.
When he looks through his window he can see the eastern hills from it, an objectively great view he usually loves, with the fog often looking like the mountains were being hugged by clouds. The first time his parents brought him to the capital he'd gawked at them, the imposing mountains that flanked the capital were stunning, if not slightly unnerving for someone used to being able to look into the horizon, with nothing to block the endless valleys of the Vichada.
However, despite having lived mainly in Bogotá for a couple of years now, they seem even more unfamiliar now than they did back then.
A mirla lands on the branches of the feijoa tree outside his window, pecking at the fruit and ripping it apart, grey wings flaring as it hops around the branch. At least someone is having fun.
The jingle of keys unlocking his front door wakes Techno from the light, fretful sleep he'd managed to fall into. He huffs, trying to bury himself deeper into the duvet, cold despite the sweat still dampening his fur.
"Techno!" Phil calls out as he steps into the apartment. Techno forces himself to wake up a bit more, if only because he wants to see him, but can't bring his tongue—or brain for that matter —to form a response just yet.
Not that it matters. Phil makes his way to the bedroom without waiting for his answer, talons tapping rhythmically against the hardwood floor, only interrupted for a second by the sound of running water, as he rushes over. Techno's ears perk up.
He opens his eyes just enough to get water into them as a damp towel is pressed into his forehead. Phil shushes him when he whines about it, wiping the excess water from around his eyes, but there is laughter in his voice. How rude of him. "Sorry, sorry."
The grumble he gives in disapproval doesn't seem to be as intimidating as he'd hoped. Phil actually coos out loud at his protests, which feels horribly undignified, but with Phil's hands around his arm, carefully pulling him up, he can't find it in himself to actually complain. "Okay mate, let's get you comfortable."
"I am dying." His voice is a wreck, raspy and gravely, his hurt throat makes it sound deeper than usual.
"Just a bit." Phil teases, fingers running through his fur, soft along his snout, in between his eyes, scratching behind his ears. "Did you have anything for the cold?"
"Dolex." The painkillers were old enough he should have thrown them out instead, but everyone knows expiration dates are merely suggestions for the faint of heart.
"Good enough for now. Any water?"
Techno has seen enough gringo movies to know that he has a right to remain silent. Does it work the same in his own country? He should probably know that, it seems like more useful information.
"Food?" Phil asks when he realizes Techno is choosing to ignore him, giving him The Look.
Techno just mumbles, ears pinned back. Phil would usually tease him for looking like a kicked dog, the fact he doesn't now must mean he really looks a mess. How reassuring.
"I'll make you something." Phil's voice softens, instead of scolding him. Maybe Techno is dying.
Phil's downright offended tone a few minutes later, accompanied by cabinets opening and closing as he continues rummaging through Techno's kitchen like he'll find anything other than his impressive collection of ramen packages, quickly assuages that fear.
"You have nothing in here! How are you alive?!"
That's more like it. There might be hope for him after all.
"I'm going to D1, is there anything in particular you want?" Phil comes back into the bedroom, picking up his discarded jacket.
Techno's hooved fingers twitch with the urge to grab onto his arm and refusing to let him go. He doesn't, of course. That would be too embarrassing. "Caldo de cucha."
"I feel like it is my moral duty not to feed you fish from D1." He scrunches up his nose.
It is a fair, sensible decision, Techno still halfheartedly glares at him. "Jus' go catch some then."
Phil doesn't point out how unrealistic it would be to go all the way to a river from this side of the city. Techno has the sense that he would do it, if it was an actual option. "Pretty sure anything I got from the Bogotá river should be considered a biohazard."
"Changua, then?" At least it is soup, he can manage with some good soup, that's the cure for anything.
"Disgusting, maybe the toxic waste fish would be better."
Techno knows he'll still make it for him, though. "It is one of the only two good things to ever come from this godforsaken place."
"You have horrible taste."
"Don't insult yourself."
Phil shoves his arm, but it is too gentle to do anything. Techno still sways, for dramatic effect, chuckling. The knot in his chest unwinds just a bit at the way Phil's gaze softens.
"My debit card is… somewhere." Where did he put it? He should keep better track of that. "…I'll send you whatever you spend to Nequi later, yeah?"
"Don't even think about that." Phil kisses the top of his snout, laughing at how his ears twitch, flustered from the affection. "I'll be back in a minute. Try and get some sleep."
"Food is good for you." Phil nudges him.
The bowl of soup is warm. It smells great, even through Techno's stuffy snout. Still, the idea of eating right now, when even swallowing his own spit aches, isn't exactly doing wonders for his appetite. "Says who?"
"Vida mía, you have to eat something."
Any further protests die in his throat. Phil rarely calls him anything but his name. This is just cheating, really, incredibly unfair of him.
Techno takes a spoonful. The warmth does help soothe his throat, and the soaked bread in it is mushy enough that he doesn't have to horribly suffer getting it down, not that he will admit it.
The salty, cilantro and onion infused flavor makes him realize how hungry he actually is. He elects to ignore Phil's chuckle at him scarfing the changua down.
He does not ignore how Phil gets up as he finishes the food. In fact, someone that didn't know better would say he whines about it, of course, he would never do such a thing. "Don't go."
"I'm just looking around." Phil gives him a smile, and even as teasing as it is it does manage to make Techno relax. "I'm not going far."
Phil looks over his desk. Runs his fingers over piled up books on the side of them, most are for his classes—Cuban Counterpoint being the last one, he definitely was not finishing that for next Thursday, he hoped his teacher wouldn't scold him much for it. The man was close to retiring, anyway, he probably wouldn't care—all incredibly interesting, nothing he would be able to come close to comprehending through the cotton stuffed in his brain right now.
"Let's see…el amor en los tiempos del colera…" Phil picks up the only book he is reading out of an actual personal choice, and scowls. "I'm not reading that depressing shit to you while you are sick."
It takes Techno a moment to realize what Phil is doing. "You are going to read to me?"
"You can't do it yourself, and you are a nerd, you'll get bored otherwise. You find stupid shit to do when you are bored." He walks over to the bookcase, reading over the titles in the spines of each book. "Do you have any Isabel Allende?"
"I'm insulted you have to ask."
Phil makes a soft, keert-sounding noise. He rarely chirps or clicks—though to be fair, Techno has rarely heard actual mirlas make any noise, so he supposes it makes sense hybrids of them wouldn't either—so it instantly catches Techno's attention. "Eva Luna! Did you finish this one?"
Techno has. In fact, he re-read it not that long ago. But Phil's wings are puffed up, and he looks so excited that he can't bring himself to shoot down the idea. "No, not yet."
Phil happily saunters over, collapsing onto the bed and tucking himself by Techno's side.
"I'm all gross." Techno grumbles, but doesn't push him away, relishing in the weight of Phil's head against his shoulder as he leans back against him.
Phil skips over the first few pages, not bothering with the foreword. "I don't care."
"You are going to get sick." He leans forward a bit to let Phil wrap a wing around him.
"I'll simply choose not to."
"I don't think that's how it works."
"Shush." Phil clears his throat, and starts to read. "My name is Eva, which, according to the book my mom consulted when naming me, means life…"
Techno forces himself to stay awake as long as possible, just to be able to hear his voice.
