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There was a pressure building up at the back of Roderich's scull. He had taken some ibuprofen at lunch, but it had yet to kick in. Either that or it was a migraine and he didn't really want to go down that path. The world outside was still under winter's rule -- snow packed down on sidewalks, icicles fringed along rooftops and the bottom of cars, all melting into a grey slushy in the streets, only to freeze over during the night.
Next to him, on the front seat, plastic bags crinkled with the hum of the car. They contained the ingredients for dinner, something Roderich needed to start soon if he wanted it finished in time. But traffic was slow, especially around the high school. Buses would trundle past every so often. Kids wearing backpacks were walking faster than his car. He never understood why it had to be 20mph in a school zone -- if they were smart enough to make it to high school, they were smart enough not to throw themselves into oncoming traffic.
His fingers drummed along the steering wheel and it wasn't until he was past the school zone when he realized he had been playing just a snippet from Beethoven's 5th symphony. He pressed his palms down and took a long breath through the mouth. As soon as he had parked outside their apartment, he grabbed the bags and headed inside. As he was opening the door, he heard the neighbors from across the hall, muffled voices behind the door, getting closer. So he dashed inside and threw himself against the door, plastic bags swinging.
Gilbert was staring at him from the couch.
Roderich cleared his throat and walked to the kitchen, setting the bags down on the counter. "How are you feeling?" he asked as he began to take out the food. Then he remembered he still had his coat, gloves, and shoes on.
"Better," Gilbert replied. His voice was still strange, though Roderich kind of liked it. He wouldn't ever admit it, though. Tissues were scattered on the coffee table and floor, a plaid blanket covering Gilbert's legs. At least he had remembered to stay warm.
"I'm going to make a soup," Roderich said.
"Oooh, what kind?" Gilbert asked, head bent back over the couch so that he was looking at him upside down. He didn't stay like that for long, though, as a coughing fit had him bent forward.
"Potato," he said. "I bought some more cough drops, too."
Gilbert lifted a little yellow bag. "Still got some, but thanks," he said. He then faced forward at a suspiciously blank television screen.
Roderich put down a bag of carrots. "Gilbert, what were you doing before I came home?" he asked, stepping closer.
"Nothing, why?"
Roderich grabbed at the blanket, but so did Gilbert. There was a short struggle where Roderich clambered over the couch, Gilbert turned in towards the couch, and something made a thump against the floor. Roderich was sitting on him at this point, but he leaned over to see what it was. Gilbert curled in tighter. "You were playing games?" Roderich said with a sigh. "Didn't I tell you to sleep?"
"But I did," Gilbert mumbled into his arm.
Maybe it was the way he was trying to hide it, or that he still sounded so sick, but Roderich's stomach twisted in a way he couldn't really understand. So he did what his gut told him to do. He swooped down and pressed a kiss onto Gilbert's temple.
Gilbert turned his head, frowning. It was clear he had been expecting a rant of some sort. So Roderich did another unexpected thing and went for his mouth. Gilbert didn't have any time to respond for Roderich had already pulled back; just something short, chaste.
"You're gonna get sick," Gilbert responded. The tips of his ears had gone red.
Roderich shrugged. "Will I?" he said and rested his arms on either side of Gilbert's before going in for another kiss, a more leisurely one. And Gilbert kissed back.