| Sick Day |
| You watch him silently for a few minutes, tossing and turning in bed with the blankets pushed down to his ankles, any and all body language screaming discomfort. The blinds on the windows are shut, but the fourth one down is bent in the middle, an odd triangle shape amongst rows of perfectly straight lines. The opening allows a soft stream of sunlight to pour into the room, ending right on his forehead, and even standing in the doorway you can seen the thin sheen of sweat glistening on his skin. Padding further into the room, you quietly approach the bed where he's currently sprawled out in only a pair of loose boxers and a pair of socks. Even though his temperature reads 102 degrees he keeps insisting to you that his feet are freezing, and even you aren't cruel enough to deny your sick boy a pair of socks. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, you swipe a few fingers over his forehead, pushing those few pesky strands of damp honey blonde hair back above his hairline. That one stream of sunlight catches a highlight in his hair, and you marvel for a minute at the way the light and sweat make it look almost golden. Smiling, you set his glass of ice water and three pills on the bedside table, and gently run a large hand down his arm. He shivers under your touch, and as much as you hate to wake him from a sound sleep, you have to smile at the way his face scrunches up in annoyance. He squirms a little, a congested sigh escaping his lips right before his rouge-colored eyelids flutter open. In that instance, right before he squeezes his eyes shut again, that one ray of light catches his eyes, giving them a sparkle that would make any emerald jealous. Your breath catches for a minute, even after he shuts his eyes to block out the intrusive light, and it amazes you that even after all the time you've been together, he can still cause that flutter of excitement in you. "Baby?" Your voice is soft and careful, a faint whisper in a room where the only other sound is of the fan in the corner blowing cool air throughout the room. He's stopped moving, but opens his eyes again, blinking a few times before giving you a sweet, albeit somewhat pitiful smile. You smile back at him and lean down just enough to brush your cool lips over his flushed cheek, listening for his quiet sigh beneath you. "Time to take your medicine," you whisper against his skin. Instead of answering, he reaches a shaky hand up and fingers a few of your curls. You smile, knowing that touching your hair has always been a comfort zone for him. Something he could clutch in desperation, twirl in nervousness, or stroke in passion. He had been nearly devastated the first time you shaved your head in a fit of aggravation, no longer wishing to be the world's golden child. Still, it just gave him more of you to love, and the two of you have rarely been apart since. Squeezing his hand gently, you slowly untangle yourself from his grasp long enough to grab the pills and glass of water. He closes his eyes and grips the sheets, pulling him up into a slumped sitting position. You drop the pills one by one into his open palm, and then hand him the drink. You watch him pop the small round pills into his dry mouth, and guzzle down half of the cool drink before you get up and head into the bathroom. You grab a wash cloth and run it under the cold tap water, wringing it out when you're done and returning back to your ill lover. To your surprise, he's no longer in bed, instead sitting by the window with his cheek pressed against the cool glass and his lips parted slightly. The shades are drawn up instead of down like before, and when you sit down beside him you can see that his eyes are only slightly open. Standing up and moving to sit behind him, you tip his head back onto your shoulder and lay the cold washcloth on his forehead, kissing his parted lips softly. Reaching down beside him, you grab his hand and guide it up to your curls. You watch his lips curl into a soft smile, and you think it's probably the most beautiful thing you've seen in forever. You're not sure how long its been since you aren't in a position where you can see the clock, but after a while you can feel his weight settling against you. His breathing evens out, and you smile, feeling your own eyelids drooping as well. Just when you think he's asleep and you're pretty close, you hear a soft whisper from below. "Love you Justin." You smile and squeeze the hand in your hair, not wanting to overheat him with a hug. "I love you too Lance," you whisper, watching him smile in his sleep before you drift off as well. ~*~ The next morning you awaken happy but groggy, back in bed after waking up around midnight and carrying Lance to bed. The blankets are once again around his ankles, but his head is resting on your chest. Smiling, you run a hand over the back of his head, waiting a few more minutes before you carefully slip out of bed. Still in your boxers and a T-shirt, Lance's T-shirt to be exact, you make your way downstairs and into the kitchen. You decide to pretend you can cook long enough to make a plate of French toast. Maybe he'll be able to eat something this morning besides coffee. Grinning to yourself, you shake your head at the way he swears he'd throw up soup if he ate it, but still insists on having a cup of coffee every morning, sick or not. So, you cook. One hour, two cartons of eggs, and several burnt, soggy and torn pieces of bread later, you have a successful plate of French toast all ready. It's no Mama Bass breakfast by any means, but it's doable. Biting your bottom lip in thought and looking at the counter, all covered with egg shells and powered sugar, you shrug and decided that eh, you'll clean it up later. You've set the table as neatly as possible and are in the process of fumbling with the coffee machine when you hear footsteps and low groan. You look up and smile at Lance as he stumbles into the kitchen, now wearing a T-shirt, a new pair of boxers, and those same socks. The ones your mother got him for Christmas, with the pictures of Taz on the heels. He stops halfway to you, blinking at the table and food with wide, dazed eyes, before looking around the room. "'s my Mom here?" he asked, his voice laced with sleep and slight suspicion. You give him a wide smile and shake your head. "Nope." "Lynn?" Grinning stupidly, you shake your head again. "No moms here baby." He bites his lip, completely stumped, and you have to look away to either keep from laughing or jumping him. "I know. You ordered out Denny's again right?" You burst out laughing at the hopeful look on his face and shake your head, walking over to him and resting your hands on his hips as you run your lips across his forehead, more as a caress than an actual kiss. He feels cooler than he did yesterday, and you're filled with relief. "I cooked us breakfast baby," you grin into his neck, kissing the skin there softly. He sighs and leans into your touch a little, resting his head on your shoulder and allowing you to hold him. "But um," he pauses, choosing his next words carefully, and when he speaks again his words are slow, as if he were talking to a toddler, "you don't know how to cook." You grin and nip his neck, causing him to squirm and giggle softly. "Says who?" you ask innocently. His answer is almost immediate. "Says the entire Orlando Fire Department. They have you on speed dial." You growl playfully in his ear, enjoying the way his amused chuckle vibrates against your ear before pulling back and sitting down at the table. "Gee Lance you make me sound like a bad cook." "You set fire to my kitchen Justin." You shrug as he sits down, helping yourself to two pieces of French toast and a downpour of syrup. "It was only the one time," you insist. "Twice. Grease fire from Thanksgiving, remember?" Scowling around a piece of French toast, you wave your fork in his smug face. "You know, you sound awfully ungrateful for someone whose boyfriend just spent the past three days taking care of his sick ass." You fake a sniffle, watching him grin out of the corner of your eye. Shoving another forkful of food into your mouth, you mumble, "I feel so unloved." He cracks up at that, and you have to fight to keep from smiling at the sound of his rich laughter filling the room, no longer stuffy and miserable like it had been the past few days. You feel a hand, his hand, making its way up your thigh, and you have to literally force yourself to keep from covering it with your own hand. Instead, you take a bigger bite of toast, mumbling loud enough for him to hear about how good it is. "Aww, come on baby," he says softly, the smile evident in his voice as his hand travels still further up your leg. "I love you so much. You know that." His hand stills on your hip, rubbing soft circles through your boxers, and you bite down on your fork. Looking over at him, he meets your gaze and smiles. "Thank you for making me breakfast. That was really sweet of you." You wait, sensing there's more, and you see his eyes twinkle in mischief as his hand starts moving again. "Although, I can think of something else I want right now." You shut your eyes, fork still in your mouth, and silently damn him for the blush spreading across your cheeks. He chuckles at you and grins, and you set your fork down on your plate and smack his hand away just as it reaches the bulge in your boxers. "Eat your breakfast," you mumble, still blushing, and he laughs. He pulls his hand back, but not before giving your thigh an enticing squeeze. You shiver, and scowl at him when he gives you a smug wink. "You hungry?" you ask him. He gives the food a good look and shrugs. "Not really. My stomach's still all," he twists his hand in a so-so fashion and you nod, understanding that his stomach's still a little weak. "Coffee's all ready if you want some," you say, and he glances over his shoulder at the brewing coffee pot before shaking his head with a grin. "You're amazing," he says with a smile, standing up and dropping a kiss on the top of your head before going to pour himself a cup. You watch him for a few seconds before returning to your food, already 100% sure that yep, he's forgiven for teasing you. ~*~ It's barely even ten o' clock at night, and although it's raining outside, it's still not quite dark yet. Still, you both decide to go to bed. It's been a long day, and you need your sleep, Lance especially since he's been sick. You take turns getting ready in the bathroom, you changing into your pajamas as he brushes his teeth and then vice versa. You smile around your toothbrush as Lance slips on another pair of socks, enjoying these comfortable moments the two of you spend together. When all is done for the night, the two of you climb into bed together, Lance laying down first and then you, resting your head on his chest and sighing as his fingers immediately find your curls. You keep your eyes open, tuning your senses up all around you. You can practically feel his fingers touching and twirling every curl on your head, and it relaxes you unlike anything else. With one ear on his chest you listen to the soft beating of his heart, the other pointed up into the air, catching the sounds of the pelting rain on the roof of your house, and you swear that the rhythm of the two are exactly the same. Burying your nose in Lance's thin shirt, you breathe in his scent and smile. With the matching beats of Lance's heart and the rain, combined with the feeling of his fingers in your hair, it's not too long before you start to drift off. Just as you're at the brink of sleep, your face contorts in a what almost looks painful way, right before you sneeze. "Shit," you mumble, pinching your nose and hoping Lance is already asleep, even as his fingers still in your hair. "Baby?" he asks. "What was that?" You curse silently and shrug the best you can. "Nothing. I um, I burped?" "Uh huh, yeah right," he says. "You sneezed." You sniffle loudly, but shake your head. "Did not." You groan when he sits up and turns the light on anyway, blindly clutching at him to keep him in bed with you. You are NOT getting sick. No way. "It's okay," he says to you, touching your head, "I just want to get the thermometer." "I'm not sick," you mumble, but its cut off by a bigger and louder sneeze. Sighing, you open your eyes and look up at him. "See?" you ask dryly. "Not sick." ~*~ As it turns out, much to your dismay, you're sick. You curse when the thermometer reads 101 degrees, and you fall back on the pillow, your lower lip stuck in a permanent pout. Lance had already retrieved a glass of cool water a few pills for you to take. Deciding to go the childish route, you cross your arms in front of you and set your lips in a firm line, not letting Lance's fingers push the pills into your mouth. Pulling back with a sigh, he raises an eyebrow at you. "Justin, baby, you are sick," he says slowly, "and when you're sick, you have to take medicine. Now, I'm getting these pills in you one way or another, and there are two ways to do this. If you don't open your mouth and swallow them, then I don't think you're going to like the other place they can go." Your eyes widen and your mouth drops open, more in shock than anything else, and he pops the pills into your mouth with a sweet smile. Taking the water, you swallow them down and sigh as he climbs back into bed, wrapping his arms around you and kissing your forehead. "How messed up is this?" you ask. "As soon as you get better, I get sick. Dammit." "It's okay baby," he murmurs, running his fingers through your hair again, "I'll take good care of you." You smile at that. That is, until he moves his mouth to your ear and whispers hotly, "Maybe tomorrow we can play doctor." You grin against his chest, nodding and leaning more into his touch. Suddenly, this whole sick business doesn't seem so bad after all. THE END |