Work Text:
‘Nikolai? Nikolai!’
Warsman sighed. The voice was a nasally whine, and even its ‘yell’ was more of a strained whimper, as it cracked and broke on each syllable uttered. He took a deep inhalation, as he waited outside the bedroom door, and forced a ‘smile’ as best as his cybernetic features would allow, so that his eyes brightened and softened through his mask. The tray in his hands was held steady, although his knuckles momentarily turned white from pressure.
‘Nikolaaaaai!’
The exhalation finally escaped, as his eyes narrowed for a second. He pushed open the bedroom door with his foot, and stepped inside the humid and warm space, made worse with the steam-bath on the bedside table and array of hot-water bottles on the mattress. There were used tissues all over the floor, spilling over the full waste-bin, and pillows were piled up on the bed as if seeking to create a den for a child or living space for a terminally ill adult.
Warsman held back another sigh. He held the tray in one hand, as he tidied the bedside table, and put down its contents with a small clatter, before picking up the various tissues and hot-water bottles and now lukewarm compresses. Kevin simply sniffed. He was bundled up in a thick duvet, along with two or three blankets, and his flushed face poked out of the top with pouting lips and bloodshot eyes, while occasional sneezes brought pain to Warsman’s ears. Each one was complemented by a long sniff and moan, before a coughing fit ensued. Warsman asked:
“What is the matter, Kevin?”
He walked around the bed, before he climbed onto the sweat-soaked sheets. The mattress dipped under his muscular weight, which knocked Kevin from his carefully perched state, and – with a great thud – Kevin fell into him and was caught by two waiting arms. Warsman chuckled. He held Kevin close and pressed a kiss to the top of his mussed blond locks, while one hand stroked at the bare arm of his lover, and Kevin nuzzled against him with further sniffs. The temperature of his skin was far less than before, but he was still clammy to the touch.
“I think I’m dying,” mumbled Kevin.
“Typically, dying people do not announce their death in advance.”
“How would you know?”
“Well, I have died at least twice in my lifetime.”
Kevin lifted his head. He stared hard at Warsman with a deathly glare, but Warsman simply placed a ‘kiss’ through his mask to the forehead still slicked with sweat, and Kevin – unable to stay angry – simply dropped his chin to his chest and sighed. The two cuddled together on the bed, while the television played on a low volume to some old movie . . . ‘My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you’ . . . the grand costumes and vast landscapes were a far cry from the stuffy bedroom of a sick man.
“Look, I have made you a tray to keep you alive,” teased Warsman. “It has a hot drink of lemon and honey, various throat sweets, paracetamol for your fever, a selection of healthy snacks, and a thermometer to keep an eye on your temperature. I even included a cold compress, as well as a small teddy-bear for comfort. Your mother tells me it was your favourite as a child.”
“I don’t think paracetamol is any good for influenza.”
“You do not have the flu.”
“Pneumonia, then.”
“You do not have pneumonia, either.”
“It could be the coronavirus.”
“You have a cold, Kevin. It is a common cold or – as I am inclined to say – ‘man-flu’. If you were even remotely at risk of something worse, I would call you forth a nurse or take you to a hospital, but the fact remains a very simple one: you have what children call the ‘sniffles’.”
“How do you know it’s not coronavirus?”
Kevin pulled his legs against his chest. The pout upon him was only half-serious, while half-lidded eyes struggled to focus on the man and woman on screen, and his pink fringe obscured what remained of his vision, as sweat stuck it awkwardly to his forehead and over his eyes. He snuggled against Warsman, with his face pressed into the crook of a long neck. The warm breath may have triggered arousal at any other time, but each breath was so ragged and rough that Warsman could only press an array of kisses to him. He hummed low in his throat.
“If it were the coronavirus, you would need fourteen days in self-isolation.” Warsman ran his fingers through tangled hair. “It would mean that you could not leave the apartment, let alone train in the gymnasium or participate in any matches, and sparring would be out of the question. I could put the phone call through to Ikemen, but it would be a long fourteen days . . .”
Kevin buried his face within that neck, until he was nothing more than a tuft of messy hair, and – with a sluggish and dragging movement – plopped himself onto Warsman’s lap, so that he could wrap his legs around a toned waist. The two simply hugged one another, while the cool chest of Warsman helped a little to ease the heat of Kevin, until – finally – Kevin pulled back with a half-pout and half-smile, as he found strength to choke out a strained question:
“You’d have to self-isolate with me, though, wouldn’t you?”
A bright and warm laugh escaped Warsman. He pulled back a little in turn, so that he could brush away those long locks of hair, and – with a sincere smile – made sure that the beautiful face was not obscured, so that he could look deeply into blue eyes. Even in the throes of illness, there was no other face that he would rather look upon, and so he swore to memorise this moment . . . this small intimacy . . . as his heart swelled to see his lover. Warsman whispered:
“If I am to also self-isolate, who shall look after you?”
“Well, if my cold’s all cleared up, I can look after you for a change.”
“Ah, so you admit it is a cold!”
Kevin rolled his eyes, as he tried to pull away. The weakness to his frame, as well as a lack of genuine motivation, meant that he was unable to ‘escape’ from Warsman, who held him impossibly closed and showered him with ‘kisses’ as best as his mask allowed. A pout and glare washed over Kevin, who strove to look as intimidating as possible, but – between kisses and tickles and hugs – soon his lips trembled and he broke out into laughter. The smile brought lines to the corners of his eyes and a bright hue to his cheeks. He was as beautiful as ever.
“I admit to nothing,” laughed Kevin.
“You never change, do you?” Warsman laughed. “I remember when we met for the first time; I had heard a lot about you from your father, and I had watched all your matches, but I had not once met you and I was far from sure what I would expect . . . you proved to be infinitely more stubborn than your reputation suggested. You are still stubborn even now.”
“It’s not stubborn to refuse to concede defeat.”
“I would argue that is the very definition of ‘stubborn’.”
“Well, you’re not the one being brutally murdered by a tiny germ,” said Kevin. “I can defeat chojin five times my size and strength, but I can’t fight against a tiny bug? Bah! I have every reason to not want to trivialise my agonising pain by referring to it as a ‘cold’, especially when it’s so debilitating and destructive. You’re the stubborn one for not accepting I’m sick.”
“I never said you weren’t sick, just that you aren’t sick with anything serious. There are times when your stubbornness is an asset; I will always admire your dedication to your craft, and your refusal to concede defeat in the ring, but there are other times where . . .” Warsman sighed. “I do wish that you would simply accept you are sick, maybe enjoy a little downtime, and allow me to pamper and protect you . . . I do enjoy spoiling you, my love.”
Kevin untangled his body from Warsman. He threw himself back onto his side of the bed, while kicking off the sheets and duvet, which landed with a thud onto the floor, and – arching his back – stretched out in a manner that properly showcased every muscle beneath his threadbare shirt. It brought a low hum from Warsman, who swallowed hard and strove to look away, but found his gaze roving over every inch of barely concealed flesh. Kevin was well enough to complain, and Kevin was well enough to feel the warmth; what else was he well enough to do?
“But it’s my job to protect and spoil you,” muttered Kevin.
“Oh? Is a partnership not one of equals? Do we not spoil and protect one another?” Warsman smiled. “How about this? If you will accept ‘defeat’ just this once, and admit that this small germ has gotten the better of you . . . I will endeavour to do my very best to fight it on your behalf, with all the medicines and comfort food and kisses that you will allow.”
“You want me to admit that I’ve been beaten? Ha! I’ve not been beat yet!”
“Funny, just ten minutes ago you claimed to be dying . . .”
“I – well – that was . . . hmph!”
A frown stole that smile once more. Kevin threw himself on his stomach, exposing pert buttocks beneath thin sleeping shorts, and Warsman carefully sat astride him, so as to let his callused hands run circles over that tensed back. The strong digits worked out various knots and kinks, while pushing up the shirt to bare flesh, and soon the massage became a simple series of touches from one man to another, as they relished in the shared intimacy and acts of love. Warsman leaned down to whisper into Kevin’s ear, blowing warm air in the process:
“How about I strike you with a new offer?”
“I’m listening,” said Kevin.
“If you admit you are sick, I will take your temperature . . . the old-fashioned way.”
Warsman reached out onto the tray. A long rectal thermometer sat almost touching the digital thermometer, and it was the former that he took into hand and slicked with Vaseline, before trailing a series of kisses down to the small of a very relaxed back. Kevin fought for breath, but this time it was for new reasons . . . his cheeks flushed, his tongue licked at his lips . . . he watched Warsman with a devilish smile, before he laughed and said with enthusiasm:
“Deal!”