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“Tim. Tim, wait — ”
But Tim was already several paces ahead of him, wide shoulders straight and tall under his leather jacket, large shopping bag swinging from his wrist as he walked. Jon sighed, and willed his feet to move faster, despite the apprehension weighing down each step.
“Come on, Jon.” Tim threw a friendly hand around his shoulders and reeled him in, dropping a smacking kiss to the top of Jon’s head. Martin’s door loomed in front of them, ominous and intimidating. They’d been here before, of course, but never unprompted and uninvited. Never when Martin might not want to see them. Surely he’d have said something if he wanted company? “We have a duty to fulfill!”
“A duty — ” Jon started, only to cut himself off as Tim knocked at the door with his usual musical flourish. Jon held his breath through several seconds of long silence. There was light spilling out from under the door, so someone must have been home. But Martin might be napping. Or in the bathroom. Or just - ignoring them, since he hadn’t any reason to expect visitors and had, in fact, told them not to go to any trouble, and —
Oh. There was the sound of shuffling from the other side of the door. It opened with a creak Jon was sure only he found ominous, to reveal a rather bedraggled looking Martin. His hair, usually a riot of curls, was plastered down flat on one side of his head and sticking up on the other, like a lopsided cockatoo.There was a high, unnatural flush across his cheeks, and when he met Jon’s gaze, his eyes were glassy and confused.
Over a pair of warm, flannel pyjamas, he was wearing Tim’s hoodie.
“What — “ Martin broke off to cough, a dry hacking sound that shook his entire body. When he finished, he grimaced at them. “What are you doing here?”
“Bringing you supplies,” Tim said, and lifted the shopping bags up. Jon echoed the movement, and tentatively tapped the top of the soup urn he’d been clutching in his hands. “And cuddles, obviously.”
“O-oh.” Martin’s brow furrowed, and his shoulders rounded down. Jon held back a frown, because that meant Martin was uncomfortable, they had made him uncomfortable. That was the opposite of what they’d wanted. Jon had only agreed to this plan in the first place because Tim had reassured him over and over that this wouldn’t happen! They should never have come, and should in fact leave immediately.
“Well, thank you, but I’m — I don’t want to make you sick.”
See! They should leave. Except Tim wasn’t leaving, and was instead talking.
“You won’t get us sick,” Tim reassured, holding the shopping out to him again. “At least let us make you tea, yeah? We care about you.”
Martin stared at them, face all creased up, before he sighed and stepped aside to let them both in. Jon edged in carefully behind them, making sure the front door shut and latched without a bang. He’d done that, once, and Martin had flinched like he’d been struck.
“Anyway, isn’t that my hoodie?” Tim asked, pitch going all wobbly at the end the way it did when he was teasing. Martin blushed hard enough to be seen over the fever flush, and crossed his arms over his chest.
“I’m going to make tea,” Jon said, abruptly, and escaped to the kitchen, taking the soup and shopping bags with him. Tim’s laughter and reassurances drifted out to him, and he could picture the friendly arm Tim had wrapped around his shoulders and the way Martin would hide his face in his shoulder. It was good that Martin was wearing Tim’s hoodie, good that it seemed to bring him comfort. Tim had first lent it to him on the tube after a night out, when Martin had forgotten his own. It suited him, despite the illness. It’s not as if Martin would have fit into any of Jon’s hoodies anyway , even if he had left one behind. It’s just that - well. It would have been nice, if Martin had chosen something of Jon’s to comfort him while he was sick
But it wouldn’t do to let any of the wistful pining show on his face, not when they were supposed to be helping. Brewing tea was safe, and helpful, and the rumble of the kettle blocked out most of Martin’s hoarse, squeaky laughter and Tim’s deep chuckle. And then, since he was in the kitchen anyway… he put the shopping away. And put the soup in the fridge, and tipped away the half-drunk mugs of tea and scraped the handful of haphazardly stacked dinner plates clean. And once he’d done that , it was easy enough to wash them up, too. And while he was drying them off, the washing machine beeped, and Jon knew how awful clothes could smell if left alone too long. The clothes horse was already set up in the corner, so getting them out and hanging them to dry was the least he could do, really.
And then all he had to do was add honey to Martin’s tea and carry it out.
“There you are!”
Martin turned towards the kitchen at Tim’s shout, and the hesitant expression on his face bloomed into something warm and affectionate at the sight of Jon. Probably more accurately at the sight of the tea, but it still made the tips of Jon’s ears heat.
“ Thank you ,” Martin said, heartfelt, and wrapped both hands around the tea mug with a relieved sigh, holding the rising steam up against his face. The sleeves of Tim’s hoodie were pulled down over his hands, and he was bundled up in a blanket - a blanket Jon recognised. Blue and green tartan in brushed cotton flannel, a gift he’d picked out for Martin during his and Tim’s anniversary trip to Edinburgh. It made something in his chest swell up warm and fond that Martin had turned to it when he was feeling awful; the burning at the tips of his ears returned when Martin finally put down the mug and turned his face into the soft fabric covering his shoulder.
“I’m sorry,” Martin said, abruptly, into the easy quiet that had settled. He looked and sounded miserable, and not in the way he had moments before. Distressed, almost, and when he picked his head up again his eyes were wide, mouth turned down at the corners. “I’m not — not very good company, right now. Didn’t even offer you a drink.”
“Hey, no,” Tim said, immediately, and took his feet off the coffee table to sit forward and reach across to squeeze Martin’s knee. “We’re not here to be entertained, Martin. We’re here because we care about you.”
“We want to look after you,” Jon added, quietly, reaching over to adjust the corner of the blanket across Martin’s shoulder.
“You don’t have to — to perform for us, Martin.” Under his hand, Jon felt Martin twitch, as though Tim had poked at an open wound. Maybe he had. Jon didn’t think being cared for was something Martin had much experience with. “Besides, no offering required. We usually just steal stuff from your fridge anyway.” Martin huffed a startled laugh; some of the tension dropped from his face and the lines of his shoulders. Which was Tim all over, really - diffusing and deflecting away from anything too serious or heavy. And Martin knew him, too, maybe as well as Jon did. He understood.
“Thank you,” Martin said, quietly. And if his voice was a little wobbly, well, neither of them mentioned it. It was probably the sore throat.
___
“ — and anyway, I forgot what my original point was — ”
“Lemsip.”
“Right, yes, thank you, Tim — but anyway, that’s why yarrow was traditionally a home remedy for fevers, although obviously not a replacement for medical treatment and expert knowledge. Especially since fever is a symptom, not an illness itself, and there might be something more serious going on.”
“That’s really cool, Jon, thank you.” Despite the tension lines around Martin’s eyes and the pale shade of his skin under the fever flush, he was smiling, his chin propped up on one hand. Jon sat back, pleased, a warmth buzzing gently under his skin.
“Speaking of medical treatments,” Tim said, lightly, frowning over at Martin, “when was the last time you took any pain relief?”
“Oh, um.” Martin dropped his eyes away from them and shrugged, his shoulders coming up around his ears. “I’m… not sure?”
“Well, we’ve been here nearly four hours,” Tim said, tapping at the screen of his phone, “so you can take paracetamol at least. Where are they?”
“In — in the bathroom. Above the sink. I can — ”
“Nuh uh, nope. You sit back down.” Tim even went so far as to place both hands on Martin’s shoulders and gently push him back down the inch he’d struggled off the couch. Martin collapsed back into the cushions, pouting up at Tim. Unphased, Tim ruffled his hand through Martin’s sweaty hair, ignoring Martin batting indignantly at his hands until Martin held them up in surrender. Reassured Martin wouldn’t try to stand again, Tim loped easily down the hall towards the bathroom.
“Here,” Jon said, on instinct, and reached up to run his own fingers through Martin’s hair, much more gently than Tim had. He’d only meant to undo the damage Tim had done, and Martin’s hair was a little damp and honestly kind of gross. But once he was doing it, he couldn’t resist taking his time, gently smoothing back the strands. And then Martin leaned into his hand, and — well. Jon could hardly pull away then. The only advantage of his shitty circulation, probably - cold hands.
After a few moments of this, Jon cleared his throat and withdrew, holding both hands tightly together in his lap to hide that they were trembling. Martin bumped their shoulders together, carefully, and Jon bumped him back, suppressing a smile.
“I’ll — ah,” and he had to pause to clear his throat again, something tight lodged around his Adam’s apple. “I’ll go heat up that soup. Better not to take painkillers on an empty stomach. And, ah - keep your strength up.”
___
“Jon,” Tim was calling him from across from the living room, voice pitched low. From the tone, Jon suspected Tim had called his name at least once before; he sounded fondly exasperated and amused. But Jon felt he had a good excuse; Martin had leaned further and further into space over the course of the movie they’d chosen, until Jon had lifted an arm and Martin had simply curled into his side with a contented sigh.
“Mm?” Jon asked, not willing to look away or risk raising his voice and disturbing Martin.
“He asleep?”
“Yeah.” Jon swept a hand down Martin’s back and smiled when he snuggled closer, his gentle snuffles transforming into proper snores. He tugged the edge of the blanket over Martin’s shoulders and dedicated several moments to ensuring it was properly tucked in.
“Good. About time he let himself get some rest.”
Tim turned back towards the TV, and Jon looked back down at Martin. He was practically lying in Jon’s lap, his head pillowed on Jon’s stomach and arms wrapped around his middle. He might be drooling into Jon’s jumper, and snuffling slightly on every exhale, and was definitely leaving creases in Jon’s shirt. But Jon didn’t care; he was a warm, comforting weight, and Jon petting gently through his hair and soothed the last of the restlessness out of his limbs. He couldn’t be blamed for being enraptured by the way the blue light of the TV in the small room flickered over Martin’s face and hair. Not when the sight seemed to lodge as a warm, glowing mass in his chest, pressing upwards and outwards, too much to stay constrained within the confines of his body.
“Hey, Tim?”
“Yuh-huh?”
“You know that question you asked me? About — asking Martin? It’s a yes.”