[December 2nd] FEVER TO TELL
FEVER TO TELL
PG
Author : pyrimidine | Artist : blue_phlox
Eames barges into his dorm room to find Arthur standing by the bed, bookbag hanging from one hand and a look of utter disgust on his face. Flared nostrils, mouth open and twisted into an oblong shape; even his eyes are different sizes.
“What is it,” Eames asks warily. “Is it rotten food? Or did something die in here,” he asks, glancing around.
Arthur finally responds with an enormous sneeze, the sound of which startles Eames so much that he actually jumps backward. “Christ,” he says, impressed by the blast radius.
“Mrmph,” Arthur mumbles. The bookbag slips from his hand as he falls backward onto the mattress.
Eames drops his things as well, then goes to loom over him. “You’re getting sick,” he accuses.
“Doe,” Arthur says, because he’s a professional at denying all things.
“Either you’re still hung up on that horrible game of animal charades that Mal made us play, or you’re stuffed up to all hell because you’re getting sick,” Eames says.
“No,” Arthur enunciates clearly this time. Then he makes this tiny honking noise, which Eames recognizes as the result of a very careful attempt to inhale through his nose. “Shit,” he sighs, relenting completely. His face even folds into an expression of petulance. “We just got done with finals. It’s almost Christmas. I don’t want to be sick.”
Eames sits down and just looks at Arthur. Sometimes he appears so frail, but Eames knows better now -- he knows the long muscles in his legs, the way he can run five miles in one go, how strongly he can hold Eames down.
He puts a hand on Arthur’s forehead and gets no reaction, which must be a measure of just how terrible Arthur is feeling. Emboldened, Eames turns his hand and slides the curve of his knuckles over Arthur’s cheekbone, then uses his thumb to rub the small divot underneath his lower lip.
Original Size
Arthur continues to be very still. Eames can’t help but kiss him.
“You’re cutting off my only source of oxygen,” Arthur says after Eames pulls back. He licks his lips and puffs out a sigh. “Not to mention the fact that you’re going to get sick.”
“False,” Eames counters. He touches Arthur’s pink-stained cheeks again, then traces the arch of his browbone.
Arthur makes another tiny noise, then says, “I know you like to think I’m the one with consumption and you’re the hearty lumberjack or whatever, but you’re actually very delicate.”
“More lies.” Eames finally stands up. “Here, I’ll fetch you some water. That’s what you drink when you’re sick, right? I wouldn’t know, being a hearty lumberjack and all.”
By the time Eames gets back, Arthur is under the covers and asleep, mouth open, one arm flung out over the other side of the mattress. His breathing sounds cavernous. Eames silently calls him a rude bastard; he puts the cup down on the desk, then climbs into bed as well, carefully toeing off his shoes along the way.