Chapter 167 - Yet Again In Another Man's Bed

Marek touched Andrzej's forehead. It was warm. Not hot, but warmer than usual. He measured his temperature with a non-contact thermometer. Thirty-seven and five - not a tragedy yet, but it will have to be followed. Is it already an infection or is it still a drug? How long can the White Lady work? Marek did not know anyone who would not succumb to it, so with sexual activity the drug could work differently than without it. He looked at his watch. It was almost six. It's still a little early to call a doctor you know for a consultation. He'll check the temperature in half an hour and make a call if it rises.

He was tired of the sleepless night and the day before. The police left his neck, but the shadow of Iwo Mężyński, that unfortunate, murdered boy, was lying behind him all the time. This death was definitely premature and unnecessary. Marek, although he did not cause it, had remorse. The boy died on a night when Andrzej was lying unconscious in his bed.

Marek went to wash his face. On the way he picked up Nowicki's belongings. Only the jacket was not wet. He caught her leading him out of the hotel room and slung him over his shoulders. If he had a washing machine at home, he would put his clothes in it, and before Andrzej got out of bed, they would be clean and dry. Marek was not, however, one of the people who do their own laundry. He didn't even have a clothesline, so he threw his clothes on the bathtub, unfolding them haphazardly. Then he went into the kitchen and turned on the coffee machine.

At six-thirty he took Andrzej's temperature again. She went up one stroke. There was nothing to wait for. He called a trusted doctor and described the problem.

"Is he asleep or unconscious?" The doctor asked after hearing the report.

"Sleeps."

Marek had no medical training, but he had seen a lot. His parties weren't the only ones fun and let consciousness dissolve into nothingness. Alcohol, drugs, aphrodisiacs or all at once, all sorts of explosive mixtures and something new every few months. Not that someone had fallen unconscious. But that's what they were for, to allow more than normal, to forget, or to fulfill a forbidden fantasy.

"Check the temperature in half an hour and call me."

So another half hour ...

It passed slowly. Andrzej did not wake up, but he groaned a few times and moved restlessly. He was having bad dreams or feeling pain. Maybe both.

His temperature jumped one line. Not good. Marczak made the phone call.

"I'm on my way," said a friend.

If he was home, it would be another half an hour before he knocks on his door. Marek made a cold compress and put it on Andrzej's forehead.

He saw Nowicki looking at him.

"How are you?" Marek asked.

"Weird," came the weak reply. "What happened? Got drunk again?"

"You do not remember?"

"No…"

"You had a rough night. You're a little feverish. A doctor will come and check you out. Does anything hurt you?"

"A little ... What happened?"

"Someone gave you a drug. You're too trusting."

"I? Trusting?" Andrzej tried to laugh.

"Lie still. I'll bring you some water."

"Marczak ..."

"What?"

"I'm sorry. I've been mean to you, and you're saving my ass for the second time."

"How do you know it's not me who gave you the drug?"

"I just know."

Marczak turned his face away from him. He couldn't bear the warm look of the hazel eyes. Expressing gratitude in them. That look, that face, was too beautiful to be ignored.

I really love him, Marek thought as he left the room. Because of him, I know how it hurts to love without reciprocity.

The doctor examined Andrzej with the door closed. As soon as he left the bedroom, he turned to Marczak.

"He is exhausted and there is a fever. I gave him an injection and he'll sleep for several hours. It will be fine. He should be in bed for a few days."

"Thank you."

"I must admit, I'm surprised. The White Lady is an extremely powerful drug. The pain must have been overwhelming. To resist him so much!"

"Love, doc, love."

"Love," he shook his head with a pitying smile. "The only disease that no doctor can cure. These are cases for a psychiatrist."

"I agree one hundred percent."

"If the fever returns in twelve hours, call me. I'll give him a second dose."

"So I will. Thank you."

Marczak breathed a sigh of relief. It would be bad, very bad, if something really happened to this idiot.

Anyway, it wasn't quite right with him, since he was falling in love with idiots themselves.

***

Andrzej woke up in a room whose darkness was illuminated by city lights streaming through the window, and through the door by light from the next room. He knew that he was in Marek Marczak's bedroom, but how he got there was a mystery to him. He remembered what Marczak had told him earlier that he was under the influence of some drug, but who gave him it, when and where, remained a mystery.

It was probably because of the very agent that influenced his perception and short-term memory. Like alcohol, only stronger. Whatever it was, it gave him such a kick to the head that there was still a throbbing in it.

He was thirsty, but he was unable to call out to Marczak, who was wandering around the next room. He couldn't see him, but he could hear his footsteps and things being rearranged. He couldn't abuse Marczak's sympathy, not after the bizarre relationship between them was. At the first meeting, Andrzej hit him on the head and then clearly let him know how much he hated him. After all, Marczak confessed his love to him. Less than a month has passed since then, and he has already rushed to help him twice.

And twice he put him in his bed undressing completely.

Nowicki blushed when he discovered this truth.

"Attention, I'm turning on the light," he heard, and he shuddered as he saw Marczak enter the room. The light flashed and he closed his eyes. "How are you feeling?"

"Better," he admitted. "I really appreciate you taking care of me. Can you tell me what happened?"

"I don't know everything," Marczak put a hand to his forehead unceremoniously. "The fever's gone, but I'll check the temperature to be sure." He pointed an electronic thermometer at his head like a gun. "Thirty-seven and two. Virtually none. Are you going to eat something now or do you just want water for now?"

"Water is enough. Thank you."

Marczak disappeared and returned with a bottle of mineral water.

"I'll help you sit up," he offered and touched his shoulder and back.

For some reason, his touch made Andrzej blush. That was weird.

"Did you feel dizzy?"

"No. Maybe a little."

"Take it slow. We have time."

"What time is it? What day is it?"

"Saturday. Four p.m."

Andrzej realized that he had lost the whole day of his life. The discovery of this truth was, in short, bitter.

"I guess it's a good thing I don't remember much," he smiled sheepishly. "I must have been doing very stupid things."

"Very much. Didn't your mom teach you not to go to hotel rooms of unknown men and accept drinks of unknown origin?"

"Fiorelli?" Suddenly he remembered dinner. All his ambiguous behavior, which he explained with cultural differences. "Impossible! After all, he works for J. Acutti! We talked about business and he said the preliminary draft was left at the hotel ..."

"Nowicki, let me tell you one thing. No, two things. First of all - you are an idiot. Secondly - the higher someone stands, the more impunity they feel. You should know that knowing me."

"You're not as bad as I thought."

"No? How did I know what they gave you?"

Andrzej felt strange. Well, after all, Marczak was not a saint, definitely not. His parties were famous in some circles, and a few years ago a few high-ranking people lost their stools in connection with the sex scandal with which Marczak was unofficially associated. This guy was associated with the world of high-class prostitution, he had compromising papers for more than one leader, Nowicki caught him trying to rape and then the manager wanted to let his former lover, whom he attacked, with the bags. And recently, the police have been sniffing around for a suspected homicide.

Marczak was definitely not white, but he never did any harm to Andrzej, and from the moment Dominik disappeared, the photographer only got friendship and support from him.

Is it because he loves him?

Was that love confession real?

"You are not white" said Nowicki emphatically "but you are not black either. I can see it now and ... sorry."

"Give it up. I'll bring you the phone. Write to Dominik or call him. You don't want to bother him with silence."

"You're right. Thank you."