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Doyoung’s hands move in slow motion, or at least, that’s how Taeyong’s brain sees them, two hours after a double-dose of cold medicine. It’s been a long, slow, weird morning, made even weirder by the unfamiliar surroundings. Doyoung’s room. Doyoung’s bed, with pillows that still smell faintly like Doyoung’s shampoo (and Taeyong’s sweat). Taeyong had imagined his first time in Doyoung’s bed would be a fair bit more romantic than this.
“You haven’t drank any of your water yet,” Doyoung murmurs, his tone lightly scolding as his hand passes over Taeyong’s forehead. “Mm. You’re still pretty warm. This is a nasty flu, isn’t it? Here— time to drink. You’re sweating so much, you’re going to get dehydrated.” Taeyong’s head is swimming as Doyoung helps him upright, but then his boyfriend helps guide his hands around a nice, cold water bottle, and together they raise it to his lips. It’s tasteless, but seems so sweet on his parched throat. How has he forgotten about drinking water until now?
Taeyong doesn’t need to worry about setting the bottle aside, because Doyoung does it for him. He even dabs away the droplet at the corner of his mouth before it can drip down his chin. “Do you feel like you could eat anything? There’s more chicken soup, but I’ll make you something else if you want. Here…” He moves behind Taeyong, fluffs the pillow to help him lay down, and Taeyong musters the energy to speak at last:
“You’re so fuckin’ nice to me.”
“You’re my boyfriend. That’s kind of what happens.”
Not really, though. Taeyong has had a fair number of boyfriends, but none like Doyoung. None who would not only invite him over to care for him when he was sick, but who would give up their bed and sleep on the couch so that he could comfortably sweat out his fever all night. None who would sit up with him in the late hours and wipe his brow over with a cool, wet cloth, humming wordless little melodies to soothe him. None who would wake up early to check on him, or touch his clammy face without hesitation or disgust to see if his temperature had gone down.
Taeyong has had a fair number of boyfriends, but none have ever treated him like a prince, until this one. Thinking about it makes his heart soar.
Taeyong doesn’t notice Doyoung leaving the room, but the smell of reheated soup announces his return not long after. It was made the day before, specifically for him, with plenty of garlic and ginger to cut through his failing sense of smell and taste; for this reason alone, Taeyong doesn’t care if he never eats any other food for the rest of his life.
“Do you think you can feed yourself?”
“Yeah, but I want you to feed me.”
Doyoung smiles despite himself, and Taeyong is able to focus in on his face for the first time since waking. He looks a little tired, his black hair pointing every which way, but his eyes still glow. Fuck, Doyoung’s eyes are pretty. Warm. Warm sounds unappealing to Taeyong right now, but Doyoung’s eyes are the kind of warm that he wants to dive into and never emerge.
The soup isn’t that warm, but Doyoung blows on it anyway. Just another little thing. It makes Taeyong’s chest swell, and he says it before he can really think twice about it: “You know what, Kim Doyoung? I’m going to marry you someday. Just you wait.”
Doyoung’s eyebrows shoot up on his face— he looks shocked, and then shocked and pleased, and then he does that nervous giggle that makes Taeyong wish he could squeeze the younger man against his chest. “We— we’ve only been dating for a month!”
“Time’s a construct. Fuck it. Why’s it matter when I love you?”
“Taeyong.” Doyoung laughs again, his blush starting at his ears and neck before flooding his cheeks. “You have a fever, and you’re high. Be quiet and eat, will you?”
Taeyong smiles, but he obeys Doyoung, half out of mercy and half out of grogginess. But he still noticed how carefully Doyoung feeds him every bite, how he dutifully wipes Taeyong’s mouth, and it only reinforces everything. “Fever or not. One month or not. Don’t look at any other guys, okay? Plan on marrying me.”
Doyoung tries to keep neutral, but his cheeks are burning worse than Taeyong’s, and he’s losing the battle to the smile pulling on his lips. “You’re just loopy,” Doyoung insists, removing the tray with the empty soup bowl from the bedside. “You could probably do with some more sleep, yeah? Close your eyes. If you’re still not well by tonight, you can stay again. I don’t like to think about you having to take care of yourself in this state.”
Taeyong closes his eyes. A nap sounds pretty excellent, to be honest. It’s hard to sleep for long periods when he’s burning up, but his body is exhausted, so Doyoung doesn’t have to tell him twice.
A pair of lips press to his forehead then, mercifully cool, and he nearly complains that Doyoung is going to get himself sick; then his boyfriend mumbles something that sounds curiously like iloveyoutoo and is gone before Taeyong can even gasp. Even on the precipice of sleep, he’s certain this moment will stick with him when he wakes up.