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“My head hurts,” Isak mumbles from his spot on the bed, burying himself further into Even’s too-big hoodie. The night before, they’d been out with Eskild at a bar a few blocks away, and Isak had (drunkenly) fallen off of his barstool after attempting to kiss Even. Eskild insisted they drag Isak to the ER just in case he had a concussion, which it turned out he did.
So today Even is doing his best to take care of a hungover, concussed, achy, nauseous Isak. He’s in the kitchen, making tea and toast. Hopefully, Isak can handle it. He carries the plate over to the bedside table and rubs Isak’s back, kissing his forehead.
“My head hurts, Even,” he whines, and Even hands him the mug of tea.
“You’ve mentioned that,” he says, pushing Isak’s hair out of his face. Isak takes a little sip of the warm drink.
“Don’t make fun of me,” he says, and Even sighs.
“Does your stomach hurt still?” Isak nods. There’s a loud clang from the hallway and his face screws up in pain. Even kisses the wrinkle between his eyebrows. “My poor boyfriend,” he teases gently, and Isak cracks a smile.
“I’m a fucking mess,” he mumbles, rubbing his eyes with his wrist Even kisses him gently on the lips, lingering there for a moment before pulling away, running one hand through the younger boy’s hair. He smiles.
“My mess, though.” Isak’s little smile widens so Even sees just a hint of his teeth.
“Yeah. Your mess.”