Work Text:
Henry underplays everything when he isn’t feeling in top form. Even after an exhausting workout, he's up for walking Kal. He's always been glass half full, rose-tinted glasses, looking for the diamond amidst the refuse. This extends to being sick. He doesn't want to bother anyone so he reschedules what he can and politely begs off what he cannot.
Joey is over and he goes about his business as usual until the chills set in. “Henry, are you cold?” He knows Joey knows because Joey only uses his name when he's being serious. If he calls him Henry William, Henry knows it's time to grab the go bag and escape out the nearest window.
He clears his throat. “I’m fine, love.” He tries to move away but Joey's already got a slim, beautiful hand across his boiling forehead.
“Christ, darling.”
“I feel fine.” He doesn't. His head hurts and his entire body aches.
“What are you even doing out of bed with a fever like that?”
“I have things to do?”
Joey's eyes roll. “Not when you're sick, you don’t. Get back into bed right now. You may read and that is it.”
Henry wants to argue but he does feel miserable and his big bed looks so cool and comfortable. He crawls under the crisp linen sheets and his body gives in, collapsing as soon as his head touches the pillow. It isn't long until the cough and headache come. They wrack his body with waves of pain and discomfort. He opens his eyes at a soft thunk and finds a bottle of rosemary water sitting on his nightstand. His mouth is dry but his stomach clenches at the thought of consuming anything.
“Small sips, darling. I'm about to order groceries. Is there anything you'd like me to add to the list?”
Henry breaks the seal on the bottle. “No. No, thanks.” Fuck, it hits him then. The fatigue, the sweating. He can't remember the last time he had the flu so badly. It seems to settle in his marrow and radiate out. Henry drops into the dark heat of sleep again and only wakes up when his nose starts running and his tongue instinctively flicks out to taste whatever is dripping from his nose. “Ugh!” There is a box of tissues and a fresh bottle of rosemary water on his nightstand. “Bless you, songbird.” He wipes up the runny mucus and pushes himself up on one elbow. His body aches as though he's done a Superman training session. His bag is on a chair in the corner and Henry musters up the strength to get out of bed and grab it.
Inside is his laptop, notebooks, folders thick with paper, and some biros he should really stop chewing on. He riffles through the folder until he finds what he’s looking for.
“Excuse me.” He looks up to find Joey in the doorway with one hand on his hip and the other holding a steaming mug. “What are you doing, monsieur?”
“You said I could read?”
“Not work shite.” Henry pouts and looks at the papers scattered across the dark blue duvet. “Darling, please. Here.” He holds out the mug and once Henry has taken it he begins to gather the papers into a neatish pile and stick them back into their folder.
Henry inhales the sweet steam of Lemsip. Joey stuffs the folder back into the bag and returns the bag to its perch on the chair. “I want you to drink it to the last drop,” Joey husks with a wink. Henry manages to swallow his mouthful. “How about you slip into the shower while I get something together for lunch?”
Henry wants to push back - it's ingrained in him from having three older brothers – but Joey only ever wants to care for him, wants him to be at his best. A strong yet gentle hand runs over his unwashed curls. “Please, darling?” Henry chews on his lip and nods.
The shower is good for him. It takes his mind off his body with its current failings. When he comes out, curls drying into a plush towel, Joey has brought in a tray loaded with tomato soup and cheese toasties.
“I know you might not feel up to eating much but will you please try the soup at least?” Henry isn't hungry but he manages to eat all of the soup and most of the sandwich. Joey seems relieved and picks up the hardcover novel on Henry's nightstand. He places it on his lap. “You're supposed to be relaxing, yeah?”
Henry rolls his eyes. “Yes, mum.” Joey screws up his face and he huffs like a riled-up dragon but then he smiles.
“Thank you, darling.”
Henry spends three more days in bed as his flu worsens. He curls into himself but doesn't claw himself into a hole of self doubt. He rests, a caterpillar in its gnarled chrysalis. Joey brings him what he needs and there are times when Henry is too miserable to acknowledge his presence or what he does for him.
On the fourth day, when he can finally walk without feeling like his muscles are constantly being flogged, Joey makes them a breakfast of eggs, yogurt, and barely-edible bacon. Henry gobbles down every bite. He guzzles orange juice and face plants in the back garden as Kal sniffs around him, pawing at his back when he doesn't move after a while.
That night, he touches Joey in every place that makes him moan and shake and beg for release, which Henry is almost always reluctant to give him so quickly. Joey sleeps well finally and Henry turns on his bedside lamp to dive back into the novel he had to abandon two days into his illness. He abandons it again to watch his love dream.