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It was a normal autumn day, as far as autumn days went. An icy sort of breeze was drifting through the leaves, plucking some off trees but otherwise scattering the ones already on the street. Toasty warm cars drove by, the exhaust seeming much more noticeable now that everyone could see their breath rising in the same chilly air.
Keith was bundled up in a bigger jacket than he normally wore and full-fingered gloves. There was even a scarf wrapped around his neck, though it wasn't his.
And Lance only knew this because he'd seen Keith get ready that morning before he left. He'd insisted on the scarf -- chucked it at him, more like, with what energy he had in him. Because autumn weather did not only bring about the pretty changing leaves, all fiery reds and oranges. Nor did it only bring misty mornings and chapped red hands.
It also brought along colds and the runny noses that went along with them. In Lance's case, he'd had a fever two nights ago, coughing that made his chest feel like it was hollow on the inside, and limbs that didn't want to move in any sort of grand, sweeping ways.
Basically, it felt like the cold was directly attacking everything Lance was and it really ought to stop.
The couch was his new permanent hangout when he wasn't in bed, and the TV was his only solace. But he could only watch so many reruns in a day.
There was noise at the door -- the jangle of keys, the turning of locks. Keith had returned!
"I'm home," Keith called out.
"I'm dying."
He heard a huff and then, "No, you're not."
"I can feel my brain cells dying, babe. It's happening."
Lance heard the rustle of plastic bags before he saw his boyfriend. The jacket and boots were gone, but the scarf was still hanging from his neck. The sight of it gave Lance a pleasant little buzz in the middle of his chest.
"Quit being so dramatic, I got you what you asked for," Keith said, setting the bags on the kitchen table. Or it would be the kitchen table had it actually been in a kitchen. Lance's brain was too fried to be considering such things.
At the sound of that, Lance perked up. His arms and legs felt like they really just wanted to let gravity take over, but he pushed himself up and raised his arms. "Gimme, gimme." Was he making grabby hands like a two-year old? Maybe.
After a bit of searching, Keith brought it over. It looked so beautiful and new, so shiny wrapped in plastic. It wasn't new in the normal sense, but it was new to Lance and that's all that mattered. He was going to kick some serious demon butt as soon as he could get himself to set up his PS4.
He'd beaten all the other games, even done a few of them over again, and he just couldn't take it anymore. It was too boring. If he was going to be restrained to a couch with a useless body but a sharp (or mostly sharp) mind, he ought to be able to keep himself entertained.
"Keith," Lance started, but his boyfriend already knew what he wanted to ask. Gosh.
"Yeah, yeah," Keith muttered, tearing at the plastic.
Lance watched him turn on the TV, sitting on the coffee table as he waited for it to respond to the buttons he was clicking. The disc went in and the screen lit up. Then he stood.
"Keith," Lance said again.
The man in question stopped in front of him to hand him one of the controllers.
"I love you," Lance said, in the sappiest way he could, and tried to hug Keith. Tried.
Keith dodged his attempts at affection with far more ease than Lance could have, had their positions been reversed. "Gross," he said.
"Say what?" Lance said, dragging out the 'what.' Keith was going to be difficult?
"Stop, man!" Keith said with a grin, dodging yet another attempt. "I don't want your germs, I said get away from me."
Lance didn't say no, but he didn't have to. They ended up sprawled on the floor, his arms around Keith's legs.
"You're supposed to be resting!" Keith groaned.
"I am!" Lance practically chirped. "On you."
Keith lifted his head to glare at him, looking for all the world like he had in high school -- all sour and salt -- but then it melted into something with a little more affection mixed in.
He helped him get back up and on the sofa with the blanket thrown on top. Lance got a kiss to his head and a promise of something warm to eat soon, just give him a minute. That minute was actually over an hour, but Keith sat and watched Lance blast demons to bits while the soup was cooking.
It was chicken soup and not surprising in the least, but Keith said his grandparents always made him that soup when he was sick, so now Lance was getting it too. They popped in a movie Keith had also bought and settled in under the same blanket.
Warm, comfortable, sick but safe, Lance drifted off to the sounds of the movie and Keith's sarcastic commentary.