FicAlert! PoT> In Sickness and in Health (Silver Pair) R
Title: In Sickness and in Health
Writer: Everlind
Wordcount: 3765
Pairing: Silver Pair
Rating: R (for mentions of sex and nudity, but it is really quite tame)
Warnings: Unsexy moments.
Summary: Taking care of your sick partner is part of the job, too.
Disclaimer: The Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi. This story is based on characters and the universe of The Prince of Tennis, no money is being made from it.
Author's Notes: For amyused at silver_swap 2010-2011.
In Sickness and in Health
Even with the last shreds of sleep still clinging to him, Shishido knows something is off.
As always he awakens with a blink, barely a three minutes before his alarm set to go off at five. For a moment he lays in the comforting darkness, chill air tickling his face. But under the sheets, it is hot. Very hot.
Too hot.
So he reaches for his clock, resets the alarm, before turning and slipping a questing hand towards the source of the heat. He finds a naked, hot hip. After ghosting his hand along the area he figures out Choutarou is curled into a ball, facing him.
Tucking himself closer, he carefully explores his partner's body, hands barely skimming. Despite the heat, Choutarou has goosebumps. Despite having goosebumps, he sweats, a clammy cold dampness covering him.
"Hey," Shishido murmurs and touches the curve of Choutarou's jaw.
He's burning.
"Hey, c'mon," Shishido repeats more firmly, cupping a shoulder to shake Choutarou lightly.
This time Choutarou goes "Mrf," and shifts, pulling his long legs even closer towards himself.
"Wake up," Shishido insists.
It takes some prodding and shaking, because Choutarou needs to come from some far, near-comatose sleep.
Eventually a head pops up from underneath the comforter. As he comes fully to himself, Shishido is quite horrified to hear his heavy, but regular breathing start to wheeze, with the splutter of phlegm backing it up. Teeth clack.
There's a nice, thick sniffle. Choutarou mumbles indistinctly. "Have I overslept?" Then he starts to cough; horrid, raw sounds that come from deep within his chest. Like a seal, his mother had teased gently ages ago, when he had bronchitis.
This is not truly bronchitis, but something of a really bad cold.
Whatever it is, Shishido doesn't like it one bit.
"No, you haven't," he tells him as he shifts to sit up.
Choutarou gasps as a draft of cold air slips under the blankets, thanks to Shishido's moving. In the dark Shishido can see his light hair and the rest of his face hidden by shadows, dark smudges where the eyes should be, a macabre sight against the shallow paleness of his skin. He curls towards Shishido, pillowing his head on a thigh. Arms and legs wind around the rest of his leg, clutching it like some bony pillow to his torso.
Everywhere their skin touches, Choutarou burns.
"Choutarou," Shishido says, trying to keep his attention.
"Hn, is it time?" he slurs, lips making unintentional kisses on his leg. His voice sound as though he's got a mouthful of cotton swabs to soak up the blood after eating a bowlful of nails.
Shishido sighs, wonders what to do. "No. But you need to get up for a moment, alright?"
A long pause, punctuated by labored breathing. More difficult sniffling.
Then: "Okay."
Shishido shivers when he slips out of bed as soon as Choutarou releases his leg, but it is not the same kind of bone-deep shuddering Choutarou does. Dazed and stupefied by the fever, he obeys so perfectly he simply gets out of bed along with him. Shishido pushes him back down, disgusted that he's such rubbish at this caring business.
"Wait- just sit here, 'kay?"
"Okay," Choutarou goes agreeably.
Taking a moment to drape the comforter around his exposed torso, Shishido navigates by the dim light sifting in through the slats towards the wardrobe. In the progress of searching he nearly upends the whole contents of the closet, uncaring that he rumples and scatters neatly folded clothing everywhere, but in the end he digs up what he needs: a pair of flannel pajamas.
With a nice dorky plaid pattern on them in blue.
Whatever, if it works it works.
"Here ya go," Shishido says with false cheer as he walks over with them.
"What's that?" Choutarou asks. He sounds more articulate. The cold air seems to have cleared his head some.
"Pajamas," Shishido says.
"What- why? I need to go to work- I-"
And Shishido, unsurprised, watches scramble up. Predictable.
Choutarou stands, for a moment, gloriously naked and gorgeous before him. Though Shishido isn't (for once) distracted by the sight. No, he's getting ready to-- Choutarou sways --catch him.
"Oompf," Shishido huffs, arms full. Choutarou might look all lean body and long legs but he's really quite heavy. "Easy does it."
"I'm-" Ohtori gasps, a shocked exhale into the hair next to Shishido's ear. Arms locked tight to keep himself up, like a fierce, stooped embrace, if it weren't for the fact that Shishido was holding his full weight.
"You're sick," Shishido fills in and half carries him back towards the bed. "Now sit down, goddammit."
"But I-"
"Have to shut up and let me get you into these pajamas," Shishido tells him firmly and eases him to sit down.
Kneeling, and still quite cold himself (he's also naked) he gropes for the hastily dropped pajamas. With gentle nudges and guiding hands, he helps him into the pants and eases it up his legs, "Butt up," he murmurs and tugs the waistband over his hips when Choutarou does, shakily. Then, kneeling up between Choutarou's spread legs, he says "Hold out your arm," and slips the shirt on.
"Shishido-san."
Well. That's been a while since he's heard that. The fever is making him muddled.
Choutarou pauses, too, clearly confused by himself. Meanwhile Shishido eases his other arm into the garment. Then he amends firmly, "Ryou." nods to himself. "Ryou, I can't- I have to go to work, I have a meeting- I-"
"Shh," Shishido shushes into a soft kiss against Choutarou's half-open mouth. Which, alright, ew, because Choutarou tastes strange, too. Sick and sticky saliva.
But still way good enough to kiss him a second time when those lips close.
"Ryou," Choutarou repeats, half-muffled face-to-face. "I have to- it's really important."
In the dark, they stare at each other. The faint light hits Choutarou's eyes just right, lights them up from within, despite them being glazed and a little unfocused. His cheeks are flushed with fever and his lips swollen. Right then, he looks like he's just coming down from an orgasm, and Shishido closes his eyes for a moment when he recalls Choutarou under him, looking exactly the same.
Only healthier.
And (hopefully) happier than now.
"You can't even stand," Shishido manages as soon as he can wrangle his mind away from the bad, baaaad, (but actually really fucking amazing) image.
"But!"
"No buts," Shishido says sharply. "C'mon, get in."
Choutarou is helpless, body weak. Shishido has no trouble pushing him over and tucking him in. As he shifts, dark eyes still on Shishido's face, Choutarou's cross winks faintly, before sliding hidden in the neckline of his shirt. The sickness sits too deep, Choutarou's body moves as though his limbs are leaden and foreign. He sniffles, hacks up a harsh cough and finally settles. Shishido runs his fingers lightly through damp half-looped hair, frowning, and then gets up to dress.
The house is bathed in early morning grayness. Deep shadows, luminous in-between everything else. The last quiet before all hell breaks lose outside. Shishido loves these few hours in springtime and summer, the early lightness yet when everything still sleeps. It's nice to job at this hour, alone in the crisp of morning and it's nice to wake up on a Sunday at this hour and slide up against a broad back, dozing.
Pancake mewls and winds around his legs as he steps into the kitchen, all sweet as sugar and innocent like, only she's actually trying to trip Shishido up in hope he might bash his head into the countertop or something.
"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles and fills her a dish of that ridiculously expensive stuff Choutarou always insists she needs.
Then he fetches the phone and calls Choutarou in sick.
On the other end of the phone he has some young-sounding thing, the frontdesk flirt, who's all honey when she answers "Oh, that's awful. I do so hope he gets better soon."
When Shishido hangs up, he hisses under his breath, "I'm sure you do, bitch." and goes on to call the doctor.
The advantage to getting up as early as he does -to jog, but well, today's not really a normal morning- is that he's before the usual rush of fakers who need a doctor's note when they realize that they aren't really in the mood for work. Being able to arrange a doctor's visit at ten in the morning eases some of Shishido's worries.
Just as he's starting on tea for Choutarou, mint with honey to ease his throat -he can hear him hacking all the way from the bedroom- the phone goes again. The caller ID displays:
Ohtori
"Aw, crap," he mutters. Little snitch, the front desk girl called Choutarou's parents to tell them. "Hi," he says flatly, not even bothering to sound polite. He's not dealing with this shit, Choutarou is sick and unwell and this circus will take too much time otherwise.
"…Shishido-kun?" a voice tentatively asks.
Shishido blinks. He expected, as always, Choutarou's father.
But it's his mother.
"Er. Yes, sorry. I-" and he runs out of words. It's been ages since he's talked to her under any sort of circumstances without the looming presence of her husband.
As if hearing his thoughts trickle out of his ear, into the receiver and down the line, she answers. "He's on an unexpected business trip."
"Oh," Shishido says, quite stupidly.
"Yes," she answers. Then adds tentatively, "Choutarou is sick? The secretary called."
Shishido nods, remembers she can't see it and answers, "Yeah, I. He- he's got, like, this really bad cough. And a fever. And snot."
He facepalms. Way to sound like a complete moron.
As he backpedals for words worthy of a person stationed in an educational function, there's a sudden scramble in the bedroom. Shishido is just in time to whip his head around to watch Choutarou run, bumping into walls as he goes, towards the toilet.
Followed by sounds of someone being violently sick. He winces.
"What's that?" Choutarou mother exclaims, perplexed.
"That's your son puking his guts out," Shishido tells her and paws through a drawer for a washcloth to douse in cold water. "Look, I need to go-"
"Wait! Shishido-kun?"
Shishido doesn't manage to suppress an irritated, "Yes?"
"Can I-," a small pause and a deep breath, "-can I come by later today? I want. Well."
He closes the faucet, breathes in deep himself. "Sure, I'd like that. I don't wanna leave him alone all day. So."
"Thank you."
"No problem."
After a tense moment, he breaks the connection, pushes the exchange from his mind and heads for the toilet.
The time it took for the conversation to end, Choutarou has gone through the worst of it. He's slumped against the wall holding his head as though he expects it to fly apart. The little snatches of air he gasps in rattle wetly.
He jumps when Shishido touches his hair, a flinch of discomfort. Of shame.
"Told you you were sick," he whispers and crouches next to him. The smell of vomit is heavy and acrid with bile. Not enough in his stomach to properly empty it.
"No," Choutarou croaks. His face is white, eyes bloodshot, and then he turns his head away.
"Shh," Shishido soothes and rather ruthlessly takes advantage of being stronger for once, tipping Choutarou's head towards him again with steady hands on his jaw. "S'okay," he murmurs and wipes the feverish face with the cool washcloth.
After a moment of cringing in self-disgust, Choutarou relaxes, like a knot unravelling. A shaky hand comes up to cup Shishido's with the washcloth against his cheek, trapping it there to soak up the lingering freshness.
"I called the doctor," Shishido whispers, cleaning his mouth with the washcloth before turning it inside-out and pressing it against Choutarou's forehead. The fever scorches right through it after a barely five seconds. Shishido swallows, worried. "And your mom will be by later."
"Okaa-san?" Choutarou says, voice soft but surprised.
"Hm-mm," Shishido hums. "Stomach settled?"
"Empty, in any case," Choutarou huffs a laugh, but starts coughing.
"When you get sick, you get sick good, don't you?" Shishido murmurs and begins to hoist him up from the floor.
***
Eventually he has to leave Choutarou ensconced on the couch under a mount of blankets and pillows, with a steaming tea-pot and a mug within hand-reach. And a bucket on the floor, for good measure, too.
He hates it, but doubts the doctor will be very willing to write him a note for work that explains he needed the day off to nurse his boyfriend.
Besides, Choutarou is a grown man.
It just aches to see him undone so, the quiet strength overwhelmed by fever.
Even knowing that the doctor will check him up and then his mother, doesn't make Shishido feel any better exactly. He worries and is needlessly harsh at work. His students take it, but exchange looks that say 'wonder who pissed in his noodles this morning'.
At the end of the day, as a sort of apology, he doesn't give them the usual atrocious amount of homework, not even half of it. When they file from his class, he can see them shooting him glances that seem to say he's forgiven.
Shishido smiles a little. He's had to work like an animal to get his degree, move half-way over the world to soak up the necessary and better-regarded studies, but he likes his job, at least. And a good group of students willing to work, helps.
As he checks his mobile, he sees he's got a text.
From Choutarou's mother.
He ate some soup. I put enough for both of you to have dinner from in the fridge. Got his medicines.
Shishido stares at it, scratches his hair, before deciding that, nope, can't deal with the weirdness. Instead he sends back a short but heartfelt thank you.
After all that crap he'll always be suspicious of Ohtori's parents, but it is nice to know that one of them is, at least, not some out-of-control crazy robot without common sense beyond that what's he's programmed to compute.
Then he tucks away his mobile and rushes out, home-bound.
Back home he finds his partner snuggled away in a nest of blankets, the cat curled up against the back of his neck, as if offering body-heat. The bucket hasn't been chucked up in, but has been substituted as trash-can instead, half-full of used tissues already. The blinds are drawn almost shut, darkening the room.
Shishido peers over the arm of the couch. Choutarou looks asleep, but then he pries open a crusted eye. Mucus filling his head to the brim.
"Hrm," he grunts.
Shishido grins slightly. "Hello to you too." He sits down on a small free lip of the couch. Pancakes gives him a resentful look and slinks off the couch. Ignoring the ill-mannered creature, Shishido slips a hand between the sheets, feels his way until he touches a warm body. The fever has gone down marginally. "Soup still in here?" he asks, rubbing Choutarou's belly.
"Mmyeah," Choutarou goes and then lurches up as his body contorts around what must be the bazillionth coughing fit. It is a grating, wretched sound, of much abused lungs and throat.
Shishido swallows, rubs a soothing hand over those broad shoulders. "Keep it down, handsome."
As the last spasm ebbs away, Choutarou struggles to sit up straight. He leans into Shishido like a dead weight. "My body hurts," he complains. He clutches his chest, where the cough batters up from him.
He sniffles. Clears his throat. Starts coughing again.
Shishido can't do a thing.
After, he shivers and crawls up against Shishido as though hoping to sink into him. Shishido wraps his arms around him and holds him. Under his palms Choutarou's lungs rattle with phlegm. He smells stale, too, sick and not like himself at all. Only the salt of his sweat is vaguely familiar, but even that is not as it should be.
Anxious because this is something he can't fix, can't make right, Shishido leans in and kisses him; a chase touch of lips on lips.
Choutarou's mouth is shockingly hot for that short instant, but then he pushes Shishido away. "Don't kiss me," he mumbles.
Shishido stares, rather shocked and vaguely hurt.
Though his eyes are glazed and lidded from pain and exhaustion, the quality in his look changes, going to that protective/possessive gentleness thing he has about Shishido. "You could get sick, too," he clarifies.
"That's bullshit," Shishido says and after an eyeroll leans in pointedly to kiss him again. Just that, no more, and then lean into one other again. Choutarou's head under his chin.
"You're warm," Choutarou mumbles tiredly.
"You're hot," Shishido returns, with enough playfulness that he's rewarded with a strangled little chuckle for his efforts.
And that brings on another bout of coughing, one so intense Shishido fears he'll choke on it, but every once in a while he sucks in a wheezing gasp of air. To see him curled over himself, hand splayed over his chest and his face contorted in agony is enough to make Shishido's heart wring and twist and stutter.
It lasts too long.
Choutarou is out of breath and heavily flushed when it stops, still curled over and shaking. His hair is soaked and his face, too, with sweat and tears forced out by the strength of the fit.
Shishido mops his face dry with the hem of his sleeve, before saying, "Wait here a moment. I got an idea."
Flopping back, Choutarou manages a strangled, "No glue and popcorn. Or traffic cones. Or chalk."
Shishido rolls his eyes and chooses to ignore that. He's not in high school anymore, geez.
***
A good twenty minutes later he's stripping Choutarou down, already naked himself.
The bathroom is misty. Steam rises from the hot bad. Salts tint the water greenish.
Choutarou breathes, a forced heavy rhythm, with a little catch at the end.
"You sound like Darth Vader," Shishido says, smiling, as he eases the pants down Choutarou's legs. He skims his fingertips lightly along the length of them and when the fabric pools to the ground, taps the ankle his partner needs to lift.
"Who?" Choutarou asks, before going. "Oh, him. Heeey." A watery glare follows it up.
Shishido laughs, leads him to perch on the stool. The light moment disappears when he notices how Choutarou has to brace himself on Shishido's shoulders to stay in balance, even when sitting. Shishido kneels between Choutarou's bend legs with his knees spread, making sure he can take the weight.
"Just hang on, let me do this for you," Shishido says, and lets the water run.
He's always liked being wet together with Choutarou. Even like this, just soaping him down and doing his hair is nice. Under normal circumstances this inevitably leads to more, the soapy slick of skin and wet mouths too much to resist. Now it's just this, caressing his partner's skin, trying to see if he can massage the ache away.
After washing himself and rinsing them both down, he all but lifts Choutarou into the tub. Which is quite a feat really, with his partner being as tall as and as heavy as he is. But he manages, without breaking either of their necks.
Choutarou makes a soft, satisfied little noise and inhales deeply as he sinks into the hot water.
Shishido only lets him go after making sure he won't suddenly topple and drown on a mouthful of bathwater. Then he gets in himself, squeezing in behind his partner.
They splash a little as they arrange themselves, but in the end Choutarou is leaning back into Shishido's chest, head cupped in the crook of Shishido's neck. Shishido nudges kisses into wet hair, which curls dark, and listens with relief as the rattling breath evens out, the lines of pain smooth away. It's vaguely erotic, to have Choutarou's rear tucked into the V his legs make around him, but it's also just nice to simply cradle him, naked together and nothing more.
With one hand he softly kneads Choutarou's shoulders, knowing how your body can ache when sickness roots in deep. The other laces with one of Choutarou's, both their hands cradled over the latter's stomach. Shishido dips his thumb into the navel right next to it and finds himself suddenly with a weight seemingly being lifted from his back.
He was more stressed about this than he realized. It's just, he can't ever remember Choutarou so... helpless. Because he never is. And it rattles bad to suddenly see it and not be able to really take the pain away.
Choutarou hums, kisses Shishido's chin with fuzzy accuracy.
"Better?" Shishido murmurs, eyes drooping as well.
"Yes," Choutarou says softly. "Ryou?"
"You're really sweet."
What the-?
"…sweet?" Shishido echoes distastefully, suddenly not feeling as caring anymore. What is he? A freaking' girl? Most be the fever, making him talk nonsense.
It had better be the fever.
But then Choutarou's mouth -dear God- twitches into a little smirk.
Shishido regards him with deep suspicion.
"Yes. Sweet. Oh-"
The last noise is a pained gasp, accompanied with his face scrunching up and a hand clutching at his chest again. He draws away out of the embrace, body in spasms.
Shishido's heart somersaults itself into a knot with sudden terror. He sits up so fast his head swims. "What? What is it? Does it hurt? Can I help-"
Another strangled grunt. "Aaah. I-I. Need-" he curls and shivers. The hand makes a claw over his heart.
"What? Just say it! I'll do it- Choutarou, c'mon, you're freaking me out!"
"No- It's too much to ask..."
"I swear, anything, just stop scaring me!" Shishido all but yells and wonders whether the folks of the hospital will mind it much if Choutarou has to be fished out of the bath. Naked.
Choutarou hisses, trembles and then suddenly turns to look at him, laughing. "Would you wear a nurse outfit then?"
For an instant Shishido sits there, having a heart-attack and half, mouth wide and struck speechless.
Then he pushes Choutarou's head under the water.
Choutarou comes up spluttering, shoves him awkwardly back, loses balance and dips under again. It's tempting to let him drown, but Shishido fishes him up as soon as his head goes under anyway.
This time it's for real. Choutarou coughs, barking sounds from his chest, spits up water.
"You ass," Shishido says, pounding his back gently. "That's what you get from disrespecting your senpai."
More coughing and snorting up water. But not enough that he can't get an "You'd look cute in it," out before going on hacking.
Shishido bites back the urge to attack. It must be the fever; it has cooked his brain to a pulp. He's delirious. He had better fucking be delirious.
And he doesn't really want Choutarou drowned, to be honest.
And he'll get his revenge as soon as he's better.
Double portion.
Make it triple.
A lot.
Definitely.
-Owari-
"Achoo!" Shishido sniffles, frowns. His head throbs.
"You alright?" Choutarou asks, sticking his head around the door.
"Fine, just fine."
"Wait, let me-" Choutarou presses a large hand against his forehead. "You're burning up!"
"Nonsense, s'just a little warm inside, that's all.
"…"
"Really."
"I'm not going to say I told you so about the kissing thing."
"… you just did. And I'm not sick!" Shishido glares at him. Not sick. He doesn't do sick. Sick is lame. "Achoo!"
Choutarou raises a brow at him.
"Shut up."
-fin-
Writer: Everlind
Wordcount: 3765
Pairing: Silver Pair
Rating: R (for mentions of sex and nudity, but it is really quite tame)
Warnings: Unsexy moments.
Summary: Taking care of your sick partner is part of the job, too.
Disclaimer: The Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi. This story is based on characters and the universe of The Prince of Tennis, no money is being made from it.
Author's Notes: For amyused at silver_swap 2010-2011.
In Sickness and in Health
Even with the last shreds of sleep still clinging to him, Shishido knows something is off.
As always he awakens with a blink, barely a three minutes before his alarm set to go off at five. For a moment he lays in the comforting darkness, chill air tickling his face. But under the sheets, it is hot. Very hot.
Too hot.
So he reaches for his clock, resets the alarm, before turning and slipping a questing hand towards the source of the heat. He finds a naked, hot hip. After ghosting his hand along the area he figures out Choutarou is curled into a ball, facing him.
Tucking himself closer, he carefully explores his partner's body, hands barely skimming. Despite the heat, Choutarou has goosebumps. Despite having goosebumps, he sweats, a clammy cold dampness covering him.
"Hey," Shishido murmurs and touches the curve of Choutarou's jaw.
He's burning.
"Hey, c'mon," Shishido repeats more firmly, cupping a shoulder to shake Choutarou lightly.
This time Choutarou goes "Mrf," and shifts, pulling his long legs even closer towards himself.
"Wake up," Shishido insists.
It takes some prodding and shaking, because Choutarou needs to come from some far, near-comatose sleep.
Eventually a head pops up from underneath the comforter. As he comes fully to himself, Shishido is quite horrified to hear his heavy, but regular breathing start to wheeze, with the splutter of phlegm backing it up. Teeth clack.
There's a nice, thick sniffle. Choutarou mumbles indistinctly. "Have I overslept?" Then he starts to cough; horrid, raw sounds that come from deep within his chest. Like a seal, his mother had teased gently ages ago, when he had bronchitis.
This is not truly bronchitis, but something of a really bad cold.
Whatever it is, Shishido doesn't like it one bit.
"No, you haven't," he tells him as he shifts to sit up.
Choutarou gasps as a draft of cold air slips under the blankets, thanks to Shishido's moving. In the dark Shishido can see his light hair and the rest of his face hidden by shadows, dark smudges where the eyes should be, a macabre sight against the shallow paleness of his skin. He curls towards Shishido, pillowing his head on a thigh. Arms and legs wind around the rest of his leg, clutching it like some bony pillow to his torso.
Everywhere their skin touches, Choutarou burns.
"Choutarou," Shishido says, trying to keep his attention.
"Hn, is it time?" he slurs, lips making unintentional kisses on his leg. His voice sound as though he's got a mouthful of cotton swabs to soak up the blood after eating a bowlful of nails.
Shishido sighs, wonders what to do. "No. But you need to get up for a moment, alright?"
A long pause, punctuated by labored breathing. More difficult sniffling.
Then: "Okay."
Shishido shivers when he slips out of bed as soon as Choutarou releases his leg, but it is not the same kind of bone-deep shuddering Choutarou does. Dazed and stupefied by the fever, he obeys so perfectly he simply gets out of bed along with him. Shishido pushes him back down, disgusted that he's such rubbish at this caring business.
"Wait- just sit here, 'kay?"
"Okay," Choutarou goes agreeably.
Taking a moment to drape the comforter around his exposed torso, Shishido navigates by the dim light sifting in through the slats towards the wardrobe. In the progress of searching he nearly upends the whole contents of the closet, uncaring that he rumples and scatters neatly folded clothing everywhere, but in the end he digs up what he needs: a pair of flannel pajamas.
With a nice dorky plaid pattern on them in blue.
Whatever, if it works it works.
"Here ya go," Shishido says with false cheer as he walks over with them.
"What's that?" Choutarou asks. He sounds more articulate. The cold air seems to have cleared his head some.
"Pajamas," Shishido says.
"What- why? I need to go to work- I-"
And Shishido, unsurprised, watches scramble up. Predictable.
Choutarou stands, for a moment, gloriously naked and gorgeous before him. Though Shishido isn't (for once) distracted by the sight. No, he's getting ready to-- Choutarou sways --catch him.
"Oompf," Shishido huffs, arms full. Choutarou might look all lean body and long legs but he's really quite heavy. "Easy does it."
"I'm-" Ohtori gasps, a shocked exhale into the hair next to Shishido's ear. Arms locked tight to keep himself up, like a fierce, stooped embrace, if it weren't for the fact that Shishido was holding his full weight.
"You're sick," Shishido fills in and half carries him back towards the bed. "Now sit down, goddammit."
"But I-"
"Have to shut up and let me get you into these pajamas," Shishido tells him firmly and eases him to sit down.
Kneeling, and still quite cold himself (he's also naked) he gropes for the hastily dropped pajamas. With gentle nudges and guiding hands, he helps him into the pants and eases it up his legs, "Butt up," he murmurs and tugs the waistband over his hips when Choutarou does, shakily. Then, kneeling up between Choutarou's spread legs, he says "Hold out your arm," and slips the shirt on.
"Shishido-san."
Well. That's been a while since he's heard that. The fever is making him muddled.
Choutarou pauses, too, clearly confused by himself. Meanwhile Shishido eases his other arm into the garment. Then he amends firmly, "Ryou." nods to himself. "Ryou, I can't- I have to go to work, I have a meeting- I-"
"Shh," Shishido shushes into a soft kiss against Choutarou's half-open mouth. Which, alright, ew, because Choutarou tastes strange, too. Sick and sticky saliva.
But still way good enough to kiss him a second time when those lips close.
"Ryou," Choutarou repeats, half-muffled face-to-face. "I have to- it's really important."
In the dark, they stare at each other. The faint light hits Choutarou's eyes just right, lights them up from within, despite them being glazed and a little unfocused. His cheeks are flushed with fever and his lips swollen. Right then, he looks like he's just coming down from an orgasm, and Shishido closes his eyes for a moment when he recalls Choutarou under him, looking exactly the same.
Only healthier.
And (hopefully) happier than now.
"You can't even stand," Shishido manages as soon as he can wrangle his mind away from the bad, baaaad, (but actually really fucking amazing) image.
"But!"
"No buts," Shishido says sharply. "C'mon, get in."
Choutarou is helpless, body weak. Shishido has no trouble pushing him over and tucking him in. As he shifts, dark eyes still on Shishido's face, Choutarou's cross winks faintly, before sliding hidden in the neckline of his shirt. The sickness sits too deep, Choutarou's body moves as though his limbs are leaden and foreign. He sniffles, hacks up a harsh cough and finally settles. Shishido runs his fingers lightly through damp half-looped hair, frowning, and then gets up to dress.
The house is bathed in early morning grayness. Deep shadows, luminous in-between everything else. The last quiet before all hell breaks lose outside. Shishido loves these few hours in springtime and summer, the early lightness yet when everything still sleeps. It's nice to job at this hour, alone in the crisp of morning and it's nice to wake up on a Sunday at this hour and slide up against a broad back, dozing.
Pancake mewls and winds around his legs as he steps into the kitchen, all sweet as sugar and innocent like, only she's actually trying to trip Shishido up in hope he might bash his head into the countertop or something.
"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles and fills her a dish of that ridiculously expensive stuff Choutarou always insists she needs.
Then he fetches the phone and calls Choutarou in sick.
On the other end of the phone he has some young-sounding thing, the frontdesk flirt, who's all honey when she answers "Oh, that's awful. I do so hope he gets better soon."
When Shishido hangs up, he hisses under his breath, "I'm sure you do, bitch." and goes on to call the doctor.
The advantage to getting up as early as he does -to jog, but well, today's not really a normal morning- is that he's before the usual rush of fakers who need a doctor's note when they realize that they aren't really in the mood for work. Being able to arrange a doctor's visit at ten in the morning eases some of Shishido's worries.
Just as he's starting on tea for Choutarou, mint with honey to ease his throat -he can hear him hacking all the way from the bedroom- the phone goes again. The caller ID displays:
Ohtori
"Aw, crap," he mutters. Little snitch, the front desk girl called Choutarou's parents to tell them. "Hi," he says flatly, not even bothering to sound polite. He's not dealing with this shit, Choutarou is sick and unwell and this circus will take too much time otherwise.
"…Shishido-kun?" a voice tentatively asks.
Shishido blinks. He expected, as always, Choutarou's father.
But it's his mother.
"Er. Yes, sorry. I-" and he runs out of words. It's been ages since he's talked to her under any sort of circumstances without the looming presence of her husband.
As if hearing his thoughts trickle out of his ear, into the receiver and down the line, she answers. "He's on an unexpected business trip."
"Oh," Shishido says, quite stupidly.
"Yes," she answers. Then adds tentatively, "Choutarou is sick? The secretary called."
Shishido nods, remembers she can't see it and answers, "Yeah, I. He- he's got, like, this really bad cough. And a fever. And snot."
He facepalms. Way to sound like a complete moron.
As he backpedals for words worthy of a person stationed in an educational function, there's a sudden scramble in the bedroom. Shishido is just in time to whip his head around to watch Choutarou run, bumping into walls as he goes, towards the toilet.
Followed by sounds of someone being violently sick. He winces.
"What's that?" Choutarou mother exclaims, perplexed.
"That's your son puking his guts out," Shishido tells her and paws through a drawer for a washcloth to douse in cold water. "Look, I need to go-"
"Wait! Shishido-kun?"
Shishido doesn't manage to suppress an irritated, "Yes?"
"Can I-," a small pause and a deep breath, "-can I come by later today? I want. Well."
He closes the faucet, breathes in deep himself. "Sure, I'd like that. I don't wanna leave him alone all day. So."
"Thank you."
"No problem."
After a tense moment, he breaks the connection, pushes the exchange from his mind and heads for the toilet.
The time it took for the conversation to end, Choutarou has gone through the worst of it. He's slumped against the wall holding his head as though he expects it to fly apart. The little snatches of air he gasps in rattle wetly.
He jumps when Shishido touches his hair, a flinch of discomfort. Of shame.
"Told you you were sick," he whispers and crouches next to him. The smell of vomit is heavy and acrid with bile. Not enough in his stomach to properly empty it.
"No," Choutarou croaks. His face is white, eyes bloodshot, and then he turns his head away.
"Shh," Shishido soothes and rather ruthlessly takes advantage of being stronger for once, tipping Choutarou's head towards him again with steady hands on his jaw. "S'okay," he murmurs and wipes the feverish face with the cool washcloth.
After a moment of cringing in self-disgust, Choutarou relaxes, like a knot unravelling. A shaky hand comes up to cup Shishido's with the washcloth against his cheek, trapping it there to soak up the lingering freshness.
"I called the doctor," Shishido whispers, cleaning his mouth with the washcloth before turning it inside-out and pressing it against Choutarou's forehead. The fever scorches right through it after a barely five seconds. Shishido swallows, worried. "And your mom will be by later."
"Okaa-san?" Choutarou says, voice soft but surprised.
"Hm-mm," Shishido hums. "Stomach settled?"
"Empty, in any case," Choutarou huffs a laugh, but starts coughing.
"When you get sick, you get sick good, don't you?" Shishido murmurs and begins to hoist him up from the floor.
***
Eventually he has to leave Choutarou ensconced on the couch under a mount of blankets and pillows, with a steaming tea-pot and a mug within hand-reach. And a bucket on the floor, for good measure, too.
He hates it, but doubts the doctor will be very willing to write him a note for work that explains he needed the day off to nurse his boyfriend.
Besides, Choutarou is a grown man.
It just aches to see him undone so, the quiet strength overwhelmed by fever.
Even knowing that the doctor will check him up and then his mother, doesn't make Shishido feel any better exactly. He worries and is needlessly harsh at work. His students take it, but exchange looks that say 'wonder who pissed in his noodles this morning'.
At the end of the day, as a sort of apology, he doesn't give them the usual atrocious amount of homework, not even half of it. When they file from his class, he can see them shooting him glances that seem to say he's forgiven.
Shishido smiles a little. He's had to work like an animal to get his degree, move half-way over the world to soak up the necessary and better-regarded studies, but he likes his job, at least. And a good group of students willing to work, helps.
As he checks his mobile, he sees he's got a text.
From Choutarou's mother.
He ate some soup. I put enough for both of you to have dinner from in the fridge. Got his medicines.
Shishido stares at it, scratches his hair, before deciding that, nope, can't deal with the weirdness. Instead he sends back a short but heartfelt thank you.
After all that crap he'll always be suspicious of Ohtori's parents, but it is nice to know that one of them is, at least, not some out-of-control crazy robot without common sense beyond that what's he's programmed to compute.
Then he tucks away his mobile and rushes out, home-bound.
Back home he finds his partner snuggled away in a nest of blankets, the cat curled up against the back of his neck, as if offering body-heat. The bucket hasn't been chucked up in, but has been substituted as trash-can instead, half-full of used tissues already. The blinds are drawn almost shut, darkening the room.
Shishido peers over the arm of the couch. Choutarou looks asleep, but then he pries open a crusted eye. Mucus filling his head to the brim.
"Hrm," he grunts.
Shishido grins slightly. "Hello to you too." He sits down on a small free lip of the couch. Pancakes gives him a resentful look and slinks off the couch. Ignoring the ill-mannered creature, Shishido slips a hand between the sheets, feels his way until he touches a warm body. The fever has gone down marginally. "Soup still in here?" he asks, rubbing Choutarou's belly.
"Mmyeah," Choutarou goes and then lurches up as his body contorts around what must be the bazillionth coughing fit. It is a grating, wretched sound, of much abused lungs and throat.
Shishido swallows, rubs a soothing hand over those broad shoulders. "Keep it down, handsome."
As the last spasm ebbs away, Choutarou struggles to sit up straight. He leans into Shishido like a dead weight. "My body hurts," he complains. He clutches his chest, where the cough batters up from him.
He sniffles. Clears his throat. Starts coughing again.
Shishido can't do a thing.
After, he shivers and crawls up against Shishido as though hoping to sink into him. Shishido wraps his arms around him and holds him. Under his palms Choutarou's lungs rattle with phlegm. He smells stale, too, sick and not like himself at all. Only the salt of his sweat is vaguely familiar, but even that is not as it should be.
Anxious because this is something he can't fix, can't make right, Shishido leans in and kisses him; a chase touch of lips on lips.
Choutarou's mouth is shockingly hot for that short instant, but then he pushes Shishido away. "Don't kiss me," he mumbles.
Shishido stares, rather shocked and vaguely hurt.
Though his eyes are glazed and lidded from pain and exhaustion, the quality in his look changes, going to that protective/possessive gentleness thing he has about Shishido. "You could get sick, too," he clarifies.
"That's bullshit," Shishido says and after an eyeroll leans in pointedly to kiss him again. Just that, no more, and then lean into one other again. Choutarou's head under his chin.
"You're warm," Choutarou mumbles tiredly.
"You're hot," Shishido returns, with enough playfulness that he's rewarded with a strangled little chuckle for his efforts.
And that brings on another bout of coughing, one so intense Shishido fears he'll choke on it, but every once in a while he sucks in a wheezing gasp of air. To see him curled over himself, hand splayed over his chest and his face contorted in agony is enough to make Shishido's heart wring and twist and stutter.
It lasts too long.
Choutarou is out of breath and heavily flushed when it stops, still curled over and shaking. His hair is soaked and his face, too, with sweat and tears forced out by the strength of the fit.
Shishido mops his face dry with the hem of his sleeve, before saying, "Wait here a moment. I got an idea."
Flopping back, Choutarou manages a strangled, "No glue and popcorn. Or traffic cones. Or chalk."
Shishido rolls his eyes and chooses to ignore that. He's not in high school anymore, geez.
***
A good twenty minutes later he's stripping Choutarou down, already naked himself.
The bathroom is misty. Steam rises from the hot bad. Salts tint the water greenish.
Choutarou breathes, a forced heavy rhythm, with a little catch at the end.
"You sound like Darth Vader," Shishido says, smiling, as he eases the pants down Choutarou's legs. He skims his fingertips lightly along the length of them and when the fabric pools to the ground, taps the ankle his partner needs to lift.
"Who?" Choutarou asks, before going. "Oh, him. Heeey." A watery glare follows it up.
Shishido laughs, leads him to perch on the stool. The light moment disappears when he notices how Choutarou has to brace himself on Shishido's shoulders to stay in balance, even when sitting. Shishido kneels between Choutarou's bend legs with his knees spread, making sure he can take the weight.
"Just hang on, let me do this for you," Shishido says, and lets the water run.
He's always liked being wet together with Choutarou. Even like this, just soaping him down and doing his hair is nice. Under normal circumstances this inevitably leads to more, the soapy slick of skin and wet mouths too much to resist. Now it's just this, caressing his partner's skin, trying to see if he can massage the ache away.
After washing himself and rinsing them both down, he all but lifts Choutarou into the tub. Which is quite a feat really, with his partner being as tall as and as heavy as he is. But he manages, without breaking either of their necks.
Choutarou makes a soft, satisfied little noise and inhales deeply as he sinks into the hot water.
Shishido only lets him go after making sure he won't suddenly topple and drown on a mouthful of bathwater. Then he gets in himself, squeezing in behind his partner.
They splash a little as they arrange themselves, but in the end Choutarou is leaning back into Shishido's chest, head cupped in the crook of Shishido's neck. Shishido nudges kisses into wet hair, which curls dark, and listens with relief as the rattling breath evens out, the lines of pain smooth away. It's vaguely erotic, to have Choutarou's rear tucked into the V his legs make around him, but it's also just nice to simply cradle him, naked together and nothing more.
With one hand he softly kneads Choutarou's shoulders, knowing how your body can ache when sickness roots in deep. The other laces with one of Choutarou's, both their hands cradled over the latter's stomach. Shishido dips his thumb into the navel right next to it and finds himself suddenly with a weight seemingly being lifted from his back.
He was more stressed about this than he realized. It's just, he can't ever remember Choutarou so... helpless. Because he never is. And it rattles bad to suddenly see it and not be able to really take the pain away.
Choutarou hums, kisses Shishido's chin with fuzzy accuracy.
"Better?" Shishido murmurs, eyes drooping as well.
"Yes," Choutarou says softly. "Ryou?"
"You're really sweet."
What the-?
"…sweet?" Shishido echoes distastefully, suddenly not feeling as caring anymore. What is he? A freaking' girl? Most be the fever, making him talk nonsense.
It had better be the fever.
But then Choutarou's mouth -dear God- twitches into a little smirk.
Shishido regards him with deep suspicion.
"Yes. Sweet. Oh-"
The last noise is a pained gasp, accompanied with his face scrunching up and a hand clutching at his chest again. He draws away out of the embrace, body in spasms.
Shishido's heart somersaults itself into a knot with sudden terror. He sits up so fast his head swims. "What? What is it? Does it hurt? Can I help-"
Another strangled grunt. "Aaah. I-I. Need-" he curls and shivers. The hand makes a claw over his heart.
"What? Just say it! I'll do it- Choutarou, c'mon, you're freaking me out!"
"No- It's too much to ask..."
"I swear, anything, just stop scaring me!" Shishido all but yells and wonders whether the folks of the hospital will mind it much if Choutarou has to be fished out of the bath. Naked.
Choutarou hisses, trembles and then suddenly turns to look at him, laughing. "Would you wear a nurse outfit then?"
For an instant Shishido sits there, having a heart-attack and half, mouth wide and struck speechless.
Then he pushes Choutarou's head under the water.
Choutarou comes up spluttering, shoves him awkwardly back, loses balance and dips under again. It's tempting to let him drown, but Shishido fishes him up as soon as his head goes under anyway.
This time it's for real. Choutarou coughs, barking sounds from his chest, spits up water.
"You ass," Shishido says, pounding his back gently. "That's what you get from disrespecting your senpai."
More coughing and snorting up water. But not enough that he can't get an "You'd look cute in it," out before going on hacking.
Shishido bites back the urge to attack. It must be the fever; it has cooked his brain to a pulp. He's delirious. He had better fucking be delirious.
And he doesn't really want Choutarou drowned, to be honest.
And he'll get his revenge as soon as he's better.
Double portion.
Make it triple.
A lot.
Definitely.
-Owari-
"Achoo!" Shishido sniffles, frowns. His head throbs.
"You alright?" Choutarou asks, sticking his head around the door.
"Fine, just fine."
"Wait, let me-" Choutarou presses a large hand against his forehead. "You're burning up!"
"Nonsense, s'just a little warm inside, that's all.
"…"
"Really."
"I'm not going to say I told you so about the kissing thing."
"… you just did. And I'm not sick!" Shishido glares at him. Not sick. He doesn't do sick. Sick is lame. "Achoo!"
Choutarou raises a brow at him.
"Shut up."
-fin-