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It starts with a tickle in the back of his throat and by late afternoon he has a diagnosis of strep and is bundled into bed.
“You don't understand, Henry!” He brings his fist down hard on the rumpled duvet. “What am I without my voice? I am nothing. Je suis rien!” He falls into a fit of coughing that has him tasting blood in the back of his throat. Henry purses his lips.
“Have you considered giving your voice a rest so it will get better quicker?” Joey rolls his eyes and flops back against the pillows.
“I feel miserable, darling. I took a shower, what, an hour ago and I already feel disgusting.” He turns his head toward his arm and grimaces at the smell of his own body.
“I’m sorry, love. Here. How about I make you something hot to drink but,” he adds quickly as Joey's mouth opens, “only if you rest your voice.” Joey's mouth snaps shut. He folds his arms tight across his chest and nods warily.
Making things by hand is therapeutic for Henry. The process is calming whether he is baking bread or painting Warhammer miniatures. Now, he is making a black tea hot toddy for his love. He opts for brandy, plucking a bottle of high-end stuff from his admittedly-bloated collection.
Keeping an ear out, he gathers what he needs: water, cloves, cinnamon, star anise (when did he pick that up?), black tea, honey and lemon. He breathes in deeply as it steeps and feels his own spirits lift. He pours it into a clear glass mug and floats the brandy on top before squeezing in a wedge of lemon. While he's tempted to have a sip, he resists; it is a gift for his love after all.
Joey writhes silently under the navy blue duvet, kicking it off as Henry enters. Having had strep himself on several occasions, he cannot understand Joey’s reaction to it. Although he had looked up the symptoms at the clinic and body aches were a potential symptom. Maybe he was being too hard on-
“UGH!” Joey nearly throws himself out of bed in his anguish. Henry presses his thighs to the edge of the mattress. “Easy there, love. Sit up, please. I have your drink.”
Joey huffs and puffs as he pushes himself up only to sag back against the pillows lining the headboard. Henry hadn't realized he owned so damn many. Joey eyes the mug. Wrinkling his nose, he asks if he brought him tea.
“Tea with a kick, pet.”
Once the mug is securely in Joey’s grip, Henry lets go. Joey takes a deep breath of the curling steam and croaks out “Oof!” Amidst Henry's laughter, he takes a sip. His eyes slip shut and he takes a longer drink. “Oh, darling. Oh, this is exactly what I need.” Henry brings the duvet up, tucking it around him as Joey sinks further into the pillows.
“Have you started your antibiotics yet?” Joey shakes his head, lips set against the rim of the mug. “They're in my jacket pocket.” He pouts. “Downstairs.” He looks up at Henry with large, liquid eyes.
“I’ll be right back, love.” While he is downstairs, Henry grabs the paracetamol from the medicine cabinet.
Joey takes both pills with cold water. “You're too good to me, darling. You have every right to leave me unattended but now that I'm on death’s door…” The ragged coughs that follow are partly put upon, Henry is sure.
“You're going to be fine. If and only if you rest your voice. You're only going to aggravate your condition with this prattling.”
Joey gapes, the hot toddy sloshing in the mug from his shaking grip. “Excuse me? Or rather, excuse you? Prattling?! REALLY?!” Henry levels him with a look that makes him sag back into silence. “Alright.” Another long sip that makes him tremble at the warmth pooling in his stomach. “Perhaps there is something to your entirely unprofessional suggestion.”
His eyebrows screw together in frustration. “Now that that's clear,” Henry says slowly, carefully, “how about I read to you?” Joey's expression brightens. When he opens his mouth, Henry raises a brow causing Joey to press his lips together and draw two pinched fingertips across them. “Good boy,” Henry coos.
He picks Rumi off the shelf, a small collection that had been gifted to him years earlier by an older lover. Henry clears his throat and begins. “On Resurrection day your body testifies against you. Your hand says, I stole money. Your lips, I said meanness. Your feet, I went where I shouldn't. Your genitals, me too.”
Joey can't help but bark out a laugh, barely managing to swallow the last of his drink. Henry chuckles as well. The book falls between them. “I’m sorry you feel so awful, love. Being sick is never easy.”
Joey grips the mug between both hands, eager to suck up the last of its warmth. “Oh. It isn't all that bad. My voice being out of sorts causes me anxiety is all.”
“Mmm. I can understand that.”
Joey touches the hollow of Henry’s throat, then his jawline, working back into soft curls.
“I couldn't have a better nurse.”
“Hmm.”
Joey makes a face as something dawns on him. “Was I supposed to have alcohol with those meds?”
Henry groans, running a hand over his face. “Probably not.”
“But I’ll be fine. Right, nurse? RIGHT?!”