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"Will you still love me after I’m dead?” Draco sounds terrible, weak, voice rough from illness.
“Of course I will, love.” Draco doesn’t look convinced. “Drink your tea.”
“I don’t want to, it’s disgusting.” Fair enough, it’s long since gone cold. Harry casts a heating charm, hoping Draco won’t notice. He refuses re-heated tea out of principle, but Harry doesn’t want to leave him to make a fresh cup.
“It’s not supposed to taste good.” Draco does his best to twist away, refusing the cup and Harry’s attempts to make him drink. “It will help you, make you feel better.”
“We both know that’s not going to happen. If it hasn’t helped until now it’s not miraculously going to change just because it’s you holding the cup this time.”
“It might. If the papers are to be believed, I have extraordinarily magic hands.” Draco glares at him, but he can’t help the smile twitching on his face. That is what Harry likes about caring for his sick boyfriend; Draco might be melodramatic and morbid, but he is also quicker to smile, to show affection.
“Well, they aren’t any use to me holding that mug, are they?” Harry chuckles, sets the tea down and crawls into bed with him, putting his hands to better use stroking Draco’s back.
“Did you get the chills?” Harry did, the cold medicine (not called chills despite what Draco maintains) lies far away in the kitchen.
“Do you want me to got get them?”
“Don’t you dare.” Harry stays right where he is, watching Draco sleep.
Next week, he might be the one suffering a cold. Totally worth it.