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I have no notion of loving people by halves. It is not my nature.
-Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen
Someone’s calling for him in his sleep. Their voice is far away: low, soothing, and warm.
“Al…Ale…Alex.”
Dark brown eyes blink open. Henry bends over him. He’s got on pajamas. There’s this wrinkle just there between his brows (his telltale sign of concern).
“Hi.” Alex starts to say more but finds he can’t. There’s this pressure in his chest and rough soreness in the back of his throat. Henry’s furrow deepens at the scratchy sound of his voice. There’s no way Henry won’t know he’s sick now. The jig is up.
“I feel like garbage.” He admits.
“I’m so sorry.” Henry says empathetically. He places the back of his hand against Alex’s forehead and murmurs gentle nothings when he makes an involuntary sound of discomfort. Finally he takes his hand back. “You’ve got a fever. Have you taken any medication for it yet?”
No he hasn’t because for the past few hours he’s been trying to convince himself that he wasn’t sick. Just allergies. Which, now that he looks back on it, was very stupid. He could be drugged up and asleep right now instead of awake and in pain.
“If only, Hen. If only.” Alex grimaces and Henry pushes some of his fever-sweaty hair out of his eyes in a movement that is both fond and exasperated. Then he disappears into a back corner of the hotel room they were staying in for their rendezvous. There’s the rain stick sound of pills moving around in bottles. Then he’s by Alex's side again with a glass of water and two white pills.
“You need this. It’s acetaminophen.” At Alex’s blank look he clarifies, “Tylenol dear.”
Alex rolls his eyes and Henry huffs out a laugh; he also makes sure Alex takes them; he holds the back of his head to steady him, the glass so it doesn’t spill, and Alex doesn’t have any idea what to do with the softness of that. Even after he’s swallowed the pills Henry doesn’t let go. His thumb slides up and down Alex's neck. It’s maddening. Jesus.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were ill?” Henry’s expression is genuinely curious and with every stroke of his thumb against his neck, Alex feels compelled to tell the truth.
“Wanted to see you.”
There’s silence for a moment and Alex screams a litany of why the fucks would you say that and what the fucks internally. Henry’s hand drops. Alex already misses it. When he looks up he expects a smirk. Anything except the confused look on Henry’s face that allows for the quirk in his mouth to be even more damned distracting than usual.
“But you were going to see me…? Henry trails off. “We planned this night ahead of t—"
He interrupts himself. “Alex” (and oh no one he’s been with has ever said his name so gentle) “say what you actually mean love.”
Great. Now he’s gonna have to explain. He’s too tired and too sick to make up a lie anyway. He rambles his answer. “Well—that was for sex though. Right? I mean not explicitly but at the end of the day…Casual right?” Alex shrugs and tries not to show too much emotion on his face.
Henry hesitates as if he too senses their in new territory. But then he makes a decision. He sits down on the bed, facing Alex. Their hips are nearly touching. Henry’s hand comes down to cradle one side of Alex’s face and vaguely he wonders if the other man should be touching him so much when he’s sick. He doesn’t want to give Henry whatever this is.
“I would never make you leave just because we couldn't have sex. You don't know that?” Henry’s hand is warm and solid against his cheek but even it can’t make Alex lie and say he did know. Him not answering is answer enough and Henry’s face softens. Like he knows he’s carrying Alex’s vulnerability in the palm of his hands. Like he knows it’s a fragile thing—that they’re approaching non casual territory. If either acknowledges it they both might just break.
Henry does the best thing. He says, “ok, alright. That’s alright. Now you do.” There’s something like hurt in the corner of his smile, in the crease of his eyes though. Like it hurts him that he's hurt alex.
“I’m sorry.” Alex says because he needs to say it. “I trust you. I’ve just—No one’s ever cared before about me being sick during sex. Not really. But you, you do.” He hurries to say. “It’s not that I thought you would make me...”
Fuck where is he going with this! This is so definitely not casual. Why does he have to ruin everything by talking too much?
But Henry’s mouth is open slightly, his brows raised.
“That's fucking horrible. You deserve to have been treated better.”
“Yeah.” Alex whispers in a thin hoarse voice.
Henry slips a hand into Alex’s and leaves it there even though it must be unbearably warm. “I’m so sorry you don't feel well.” Pausing, he adds, “what can I do darling?”
Alex will realize later that it's the first time he's used that word before.
“I’m so tired; but I can't sleep.” Alex's voice shakes a little when he says it. Like a child’s. And it’s embarrassing but it can’t be helped in the face of the throbbing headache that’s only just eased up and the constant flayed-raw feeling in the back of his throat every time he swallows.
In a firmer voice he says, “Sorry. I know I sound like a baby.”
“You’re ill,” Henry squeezes his hand as he says it. “You get to complain, Alex. Knowing you, you feel far worse than you’re letting on.”
Alex starts to move to sit up so he can properly glare at Henry for daring to know him (when did that happen?) However Henry, because he does know him, intercepts him. A carefully placed hand on his chest presses him back down into the sheets.
“Down boy. You know I’m right.”
Alex grumbles something under his breath about pretentious princes and Henry laughs quietly.
“Would you sleep better if I laid down with you?”
Henry’s sounds so earnest when he asks it.
“I…I’ll make you sick.” Alex says. It's not a no.
“I don’t think I care.” Henry murmurs and strokes a hand through Alex’s hair.
“You’re so frustrating. I’m trying to be nice”
Henry stops in his ministrations and grins at him. “Others have called it charm. Really if you don’t want me to though…” He moves as if to get off the bed and Alex makes a forlorn sound. Henry stops in an instant, coming back. “I’m only teasing Alex,” he murmurs. “I couldn’t leave you like this.” And he’s back to stroking his hand through Alex’s hair which is so diabolically tender and the exact fucking opposite of causal.
Silence.
Then…
Henry says in voice that is far too kind for whatever they’re supposed to be, “let me stay with you. You need your rest love."
He’s right. The longer Alex stays up the worse he’ll feel come morning. And even though it’s probably a shitty idea, he reaches out for Henry. Henry meets him halfway as he lays down and pulls Alex into his arms. “There we go.” He says as he encircles those arms around him. It’s so safe, so warm, so close to love that the only thing that Alex can do is bury his face in Henry’s chest in gratitude.
Sleep comes for Alex but Henry stays up a while longer to watch him breathe, to rub his back gently in his sleep, and to kiss him softly on the forehead when he talks in his sleep.