A/N: Do I care how sappy this is? No. Do I need this? You bet your ass I do. Lyrics are “Whisper” by A Fine Frenzy.
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prompt: 169. a time for tenderness
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.five
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but if you keep real close yeah, you stay real close i will reach you
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The ascent up the three flights of stairs to Gilbert’s apartment is enough to drain the both of you of what little energy you have left, and you can barely tell who’s more winded as you heave and you huff the entire journey up. Gilbert is by no means light, just as you’re by no means strong, and it’s a combination that would have undone you had it not been for the miraculous feel of completion upon making it to his door. Gilbert has to reach up and grab for the key hidden atop the door ledge, and it’s with much clumsy rooting and searching of his fingers that he eventually manages to slide it off. You catch it with your free hand before it can clatter to the floor - thank goodness, because you’re confident that Gilbert would collapse without your measly but earnest support - and slip it into the keyhole to turn until the door unlocks. You make quick work out of opening it and shuffling you both inside of the dark, chilly living room, because Gilbert groans as if he may be sick, and you’d much rather him do that in the bathroom instead of on the doormat.
“Just…just wait a few more moments, Gil,” you puff out, hoping to ease his nausea with the soft croon of your words, however breathless and tired they are. “We’re…almost there…”
Gilbert only mewls in response as he covers his mouth with one hand. A panicky nod of his head tells you that he’s hanging on as best as he can, but you’re running out of time, and fast. Nudging the door shut behind you with your foot, you take a steadying breath through your nose and drag Gilbert for the final stretch to the bathroom, where he immediately drops to his knees before the toilet and retches with a harsh gag, only to release on a shudder as he throws up into the bowl. Exhausted, your legs give out from beneath you until you’re seated beside him on the tiled floor; at least this way, you can hold his hair out of his face as he vomits again, a sniffling, coughing wreck still dressed in the fineries of formal wear. Resting your cheek against the small of his back, you murmur inane things of comfort and care into the soft fabric of his coat to quell his violent shaking, and even if he still trembles like a leaf all over, you don’t stop talking to him until he finally folds his arms atop the toilet bowl and rests his forehead in the crook of his elbow, white-faced and clammy after three bouts of purging his stomach.
You’re quite comfortable in admitting that you’ve seen Gilbert at his lowest - but you’ve never, ever seen him like this. It’s frightening, almost, but you’re too absorbed in scuttling to the kitchen to fetch him a glass of water to think too long upon it. You haven’t even taken the time to kick off your shoes or shrug off your coat, let alone contemplate matters such as self-destruction and the state of one’s liver after being washed in alcohol. Heading back to the bathroom, water sloshing over the edge of the glass in your hand, all you can think about is replacing fluids, getting Gilbert fluids, finding fluids so that he doesn’t dehydrate and suffer. Your heart is pounding in your ears and you come to the acute realization that you’ve never dealt with this sort of thing before; in a flash, you feel ten years older and ten feet taller as you bend down to swipe a gentle hand through Gilbert’s bangs and tip his head up to help him sip at the water, soothing him with a coo when he whimpers at the raw burn of his throat.
When he manages to take down at least half the glass, you set it down beside the tub and consider taking off his boots; but no, you should probably wait until you get him to the bed, when he’s lying down and semi-comfortable instead of crumpled in a heap of silk and velour on the cold bathroom floor. That’s another thing you need to tend to - keeping him warm, if not to lessen his wild trembling, then at least to bring about some sense of security to him that has clearly denied him tonight. You want to know what brought it on, what urged such a panic to rise in him in the first place, but now isn’t the time for questioning; now is the time for helping him to his feet, letting him drape heavily over you like a dark cloak yet again, and carefully guiding him to the bedroom as he mumbles half-formed apologies about puking in front of you like that. He says he’s embarrassed, that he’s disgusting; before he can keep going, though, you hush him and tell him that he’s neither of those things, but that he’s just silly instead, just a little lost, and hasn’t that always been okay since the very beginning?
Judging by Gilbert’s silence and the quiet sag of his head, you think he heard you.
Getting him to the bed is much easier than your previous trials - thank goodness for that - and you hear him nearly sob with relief when he finally falls onto the mattress, reduced to little more than a messy sprawl of lanky limbs that splay this way and that amidst a sea of white sheets. In the dark, you find the bureau and pull out the first nightshirt you can find, then kneel before the foot of the bed to tug off his boots. You can’t help but smile a little when you see that his hatred for socks hasn’t let up over the years; his bare feet dangle limply over the edge of the mattress, white and almost feminine with slim, delicate ankles, but you only serve them a fleeting glance before rising halfway to slowly peel away one arm of his coat, then to carefully roll him over to remove the other. The silken tie of his cravat is loosened easily, his Adam’s apple bobbing in a swallow beneath your finger when you graze it just so.
Gilbert’s eyes only flutter open when you undo the first button of his shirt sitting high upon his throat, and his head lolls to the side to look at you, inky curls spilling over a pale cheek. “What…what’re y’ doin’…?”
You fiddle through another two buttons as you focus all your attention on working them free instead of taking too much notice in the soft, confused lilt of Gilbert’s voice, or the pretty angles of his collarbones as they’re exposed with another undone button. “I’m getting you ready for bed, Gil,” you say quietly. “You need to sleep.”
Gilbert gives a soft groan and turns his head to press his cheek into the pillow. “Don’t wanna sleep…”
“I know you might not want to, Gil, but you’ll feel much better once you sleep this off, right?” You don’t bother bringing up the potential hangover that may very well render him a creaking mess tomorrow, opting instead to finish unbuttoning his shirt and wonder why your hands shake just a little when Gilbert arches his back in a small wriggle, his glassy eyes closing. “Gil, what are you doing?” It’s your turn to ask this question now, but for an entirely different reason - Gilbert is acting strange, which makes you feel strange by default, putting aside all connotations in peeling away his clothes in this shadowy bedroom. The reminder makes you flush, and you busy yourself with lifting him up just enough to remove his arms from the sleeves of his shirt and discard the article onto the floor.
That scar is in plain sight now. Your eyes are drawn to it for a brief, still moment before they quickly drift down to Gilbert’s belt instead, feeling a bit dizzy.
“Not doin’ anything,” Gilbert protests weakly, but only counters it with another curious display - the flat slate of his stomach twitches when you loosen his belt, and he warily props himself up on one elbow to peer down at you. His eyes are soft and imploring and, god, his eyelashes are so long that you could almost count each and every one if you looked at them long enough. There’s a tight feeling in your chest that speaks of something being a long time coming, of something coming full circle and linking together. It makes you bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper on your tongue as you pretend not to falter when you reach for Gilbert’s zipper and hurriedly drag it down.
You can still feel Gilbert’s drunk-dreamy eyes on you when your fingers curl around the waistband of his pants, but it’s relieved when his arm gives out from beneath him and he drops back onto the bed with a breathy mumble of something you can’t make out. Tugging down the waistband becomes infinitely easier when his eyes are no longer on you, even if he shivers when his thighs are exposed as you pull off each pant leg and leave him bare, save for the thin guise of his briefs.
How did you two get into this situation to begin with? Shaking your head, you guide him upright to slip the nightshirt over the tousled mop of his hair and watch with detached amusement as he struggles to slip his arms into the proper sleeves. At least you can finally find a moment to relieve yourself of your own boots and coat, immediately feeling ten pounds lighter after dropping the unnecessary layers to the floor. While Gilbert huffs and situates himself accordingly, grumbling made-up obscenities to his chemise, you go about nicking one of his nightshirts from the bureau to change into; it’s with a resolute sigh that you decide you’re thoroughly tired of expensive silks and fine ribbons, that they pale in comparison to the thin, fragile cotton that slips over your chilled skin and leaves you as weightless as a ghost.
You’re just about to lie down on your own accord when you suddenly feel Gilbert’s arms weave around your waist, his forehead cradled in the dip between your shoulderblades. It doesn’t alarm you, doesn’t put you off, but merely…subdues you, softens you, shrinks everything down to the size of a thimble to be better held and understood. Casting a searching glance over your shoulder, you murmur, “I’m not going anywhere, Gil.”
Gilbert draws a long, shuddering breath. He doesn’t lessen his hold of you, but that’s okay. “Say it again…?”
And so you do, your words breathing out into the slippery shadows slinking along the walls and threatening to swallow Gilbert whole. You say it again and again, whispering it into his shoulder until he stops shaking and slowly sinks down onto his side, letting him drag you down with him until you’re curled against his chest and in his arms and within his each and every breath. He’s warm, and impossibly close, but neither of you go about amending it; if anything, you let him pull you in closer, closer, until your bodies are flush against one another and you can see his pulse thrumming in his throat like a caged bird.
When Gilbert wearily asks you to say it one more time, you say it one hundred times over, whispering into his collarbone until sleep carries you away.