Declan O’Brien: Babysitter Extraordinaire

True to his word, Declan kept Amaya on strict bedrest… or at least as strict as one could with a patient as restless as her. By noon, Amaya was feeling marginally better – the fever reducers had kicked in, and a light sweat on her brow indicated her temperature was breaking.

But she still looked like a half-baked dumpling and gave up on protesting Declan’s watch-dogging after her wobbly attempt to walk to the bathroom ended with him practically carrying her there and back (with much grumbled embarrassment on her part).

Now she lay propped up against a fortress of pillows, arms crossed, as Declan sat at the foot of her bed and dramatically read aloud from one of her circus theory textbooks in a faux-snooty professor voice.

“‘Chapter 3: Clownery and Comedy – The Fine Art of Pie to the Face,’” Declan intoned, pinky raised in the air as if holding an invisible teacup. “Ah, truly high literature. Did you actually pay money for this, Maya?”

Amaya couldn’t help a snort, which she quickly covered with a cough. “Shuddup. It’s required reading,” she defended. Her voice was starting to come back, though a little scratchy. “Besides, you could learn a thing or two. Your pie-throwing form is terrible. Elbow too high. No follow-through. Embarrassing, really.”

Declan gasped in mock outrage and tossed the book aside. “This is how you repay my nurturing care? By insulting my pie technique? The nerve!” He wagged a finger at her, and she stuck out her tongue in response.

At least her spirits were improving. A few hours ago she could barely mumble a sentence without tiring. Now her green eyes were brighter, and though sweat plastered some hair to her forehead, her colour was better. She had even managed a few bites of rice porridge earlier.

“You know,” Declan said more gently, reaching over to feel her forehead with the back of his hand, “you gave us all a right scare yesterday.”

Amaya looked away, guilt flickering in her expression. “…Sorry,” she muttered. Her fingers toyed with a loose thread on her blanket. “Didn’t mean to.”

Declan sighed and brushed her bangs aside. “I know you didn’t. But you did mean to drive yourself into the ground like an idiot, apparently.” His tone was chiding but not unkind. “You’re not invincible, kid. Even acrobats need rest. You of all people should know the body is an instrument, not a punching bag.”

Amaya groaned. “Please, not the ‘body is your instrument’ speech again! You sound like a broken record… or like you, yesterday,” she admitted, grimacing. “I know, I know. I was stupid.”

Declan smirked. “Wow, did I just hear Amaya admit she was stupid? Miracles do happen!”

Amaya rolled her eyes but smiled despite herself. “Ugh, you’re lucky I’m too tired to hurl something at your giant head.”

Declan opened the bentos Akio had left and whistled appreciatively at the neatly arranged meals. “Your prince really outdid himself. This looks amazing.”

“He’s not actually my prince,” Amaya said quickly. “I was just messing with him yesterday.”

Her cheeks gave her away, warming as the words echoed back at her from someone else’s mouth.

She watched as Declan took a pair of chopsticks and started adding food onto two plates he’d fetched from the kitchen.

“You sure? Because this omelette says otherwise,” Declan remarked, holding up a piece of tamagoyaki that had an expertly snipped heart of seaweed pressed onto the top. Likely just a cute bento detail he did without thinking, but Declan waggled his eyebrows. “This is love, clearly.”

Amaya’s face burned. “Th-that’s just how he decorates his bentos! It’s for, like… symmetry or aesthetic balance or whatever,” she sputtered.

“Mm-hmm. Denial is a powerful thing,” Declan handed her a plate and her pink panda chopsticks, effectively ending her protest by shoving a bite of grilled chicken toward her mouth. “Now open up. Captain Akio’s love meal is ready for take-off.”

Amaya groaned, but accepted the bite, mainly to shut him up. The chicken was savoury and delicious, marinated just right. If her appetite hadn’t been so weak, she would have cleared the plate. As it was, she picked at a few vegetables, managed half the rice, and annihilated every single one of the pickled plums while Declan practically inhaled the rest. He wasn’t kidding about verifying Akio’s cooking. 

After lunch, Declan insisted she lie back down. Amaya begrudgingly obeyed, feeling a wave of drowsiness return as her full stomach and the lingering fever tugged at her eyelids.

She cracked one eye open to watch Declan, as he started tidying up the room, gathering the empty porridge bowl from earlier and various used tissues she’d tossed towards a bin (her aim had been… less than perfect, as evidenced by the crumpled misses on the floor).

As he moved around, picking up stray socks and shirts that had fallen out of her overstuffed duffel, Declan tutted. “This won’t do at all. When was the last time you organized your clothes? Were you planning to live out of this bag forever?”

Amaya peered over the blanket. “I was living out of it perfectly fine, thank you,” she replied.

Declan was already unzipping the duffel. “Nope. Not on my watch. If you won’t get your act together, I’ll do it for you. Let’s see… where’s the closet in this shoebox apartment?”

“Over there,” Amaya sighed, pointing to a sliding door. “But really, you don’t ha—”

Her protest died as Declan pulled out a bundle of garments from the bag and held them up with an inscrutable expression. In one hand, a frilly lavender blouse with copious lace; in the other, a pair of neon-striped leggings and as a sequined tutu. He slowly arched an eyebrow. “Care to explain, or shall I assume you’re joining a Harajuku girl gang?”

Amaya felt a hot flush creeping up her neck. “They’re costumes! And that blouse is vintage,” she huffed. “Give those here!”

“Nope, you’re on bed rest,” Declan said smugly, stepping back as she made a half-hearted grab. “I’ll handle this. You just lie there and feel awkward.” He flashed a cheeky grin.

She groaned and flopped back dramatically. “You are the worst nurse ever. Snooping through a patient’s deeply personal and incredibly stylish belongings.”

“Oh please. I’ve seen you in far more embarrassing situations,” he quipped as he slid open the closet and started hanging her outfits. “Remember that time in Budapest when your skirt got caught on the lyra hoop? The whole tent got a view of—”

“LA LA LA, not listening!” Amaya covered her ears, face going crimson. “You promised to never speak of that again!”

Declan’s warm chuckle filled the room. “Alright, alright.” He continued putting things away, muttering commentary as he did. “Honestly, how do you own this much lace? Are you building a Victorian curtain empire on the side?”

“I’m versatile,” Amaya shot back from under the covers. “Unlike you, who doesn’t own anything but gym shorts and circus tank tops.” He snorted, but then stopped mid-fold. “Okay, what in the name of circus nightmares is this?”

Amaya peeked out in time to see Declan holding up a plush clown doll by the arm. It was dressed in a faded harlequin outfit, with a sewed-on grin that walked the fine line between cheerful and posessed. It had a bulbous red nose and one of its button eyes drooped eerily.

“That,” Amaya said, pointing grandly, “is Hooty. And I will not tolerate slander in his presence.”

Declan dangled the clown at arm’s length, eyeing it as if it might bite. “Hooty is haunted. I can feel it in my bones. Why do you own this?”

She managed a faint smirk. “He’s a lucky charm. Got him after my first performance as a kid. He’s been with me ever since.”

Declan shook his head, mumbling something like “clown voodoo” under his breath, but he placed the plushie reverently on her nightstand facing the bed.

“There. May the haunted jester watch over you while you sleep.”

By the time Declan finished organising, Amaya’s duffel was zipped and tucked under the bed, the drawers of the small dresser were filled with her folded shirts and stage outfits, and the closet held the frills and sequinned things too delicate to crumple. The room actually looked like it belonged to a human and not a traveling tornado.

“There. Homey, eh?” Declan said, dusting off his hands.

He plopped into one of Amaya’s oversized beanbags, a plush monstrosity she’d impulse-bought on clearance and defended with her life ever since.

It gave a soft whumpf as it swallowed half of him, but he didn’t seem to mind. Rolling his shoulders, he reached for a nearby energy drink and took a dramatic swig. “Whew. That was more work than leg day. How you holding up, fever-breaker?”

She took a moment to assess. The chills had subsided, leaving behind nothing worse than a post-fever sweat and the general sensation of being run over by a clown car. Her limbs still felt like jelly, but at least her headache was gone.

“Better. Tired… but better,” she admitted. Then she added in a mumble, “Thanks, Declan.”

He looked at her with a soft smile. “Anytime.” Reaching over, he gave her blanketed leg a pat. “Now, doctor’s orders: nap. I see those eyelids drooping.”

Amaya wanted to protest, she felt like she’d slept all day. She opened her mouth to argue, but a yawn burst out first, completely wrecking her credibility. “Fine. But wake me if anything fun happens,” she joked.

“Oh sure,” Declan chuckled. “If Cirque du Soleil calls and begs for your triumphant return, I’ll rouse you immediately.”

She stuck out her tongue again, but she was smiling as she closed her eyes. Within minutes, the steady rhythm of her breathing indicated she’d drifted off into a much-needed afternoon sleep.

Declan gave it another minute, just to be sure she was properly out, then stealthily pulled out his phone and tapped out a message to Akio.

Patient remains unconscious. Refuses to admit plush clown is sentient. Prescribed: one nap.

He hit send, then reached over for the circus theory textbook still lying by the bed. Flipping it open at random, he skimmed the heading at the top of the page.

“Chapter Eight: The Semiotics of Balloon Animals,” he read aloud. “Riveting.”

He leaned back into the beanbag, cracked the book open across one knee, and shot a quick glance at Hooty.

“Don’t judge me. You brought this on yourself.”

Hooty stared back in eternal silence, its crooked button eye somehow looking more judgmental than before, like it knew he’d mispronounced “semiotics.”

Declan shuddered. “I liked you better when you were in the duffel.”