Work Text:
John had been gripped with a migraine all day. It started not long after Henry had left the house to meet with other Wanderer mates, who happened to be in London as well—a small network of support, people who could hopefully better understand what he went through than John ever could.
In a way, he was grateful Henry was away and therefore could not see him like this. Sweat-soaked nightshirt, face pressed against a pillow to avoid light as much as possible, despite the drawn curtains, hair plastered against his forehead, eyes undoubtedly bleary and unfocused. Henry had too much on his mind, lately, though somewhere in the back of his pain-filled conscience, John knew Henry would want to be there for him anyway. But the day passed, and he did not dare move too much, or eat anything—so he stayed in their room until nightfall, which now arrived later well into spring. It was in the darkness of the early night that it began to relent. And precisely when Henry came home.
“John?” he called. John slowly attempted to sit up. Out in the hall, he could see the soft glow of a candle. Henry’s steps approached, as did the light. Instinctively, John shielded his eyes and screwed them shut. The footsteps hurried across the floor. “John—are you alright?”
There was a dip in the mattress near him, and the quiet thump of the candleholder being placed on the bedside table. John tentatively blinked his eyes open. Henry’s hand was at his knee.
He cleared his throat. “Migraine, but—” he found the light, at least one candle’s worth, no longer pained him. “It’s better now.”
“Were you here all day? Christ, John, I—I should have stayed—”
“No, no.” John set his hands on Henry’s biceps. “Being alone in the dark is best for a migraine, and besides, you had important business."
Henry’s brow furrowed as he tilted his head.
“Catching up with mates isn’t what I would call important business. You were ill—”
“You know what I mean.” He rubbed his thumbs against the light wool of Henry’s jumper. Henry’s expression shifted to something softer. He cupped John’s cheek.
“You’re right. You always are,” Henry conceded. John smiled and turned his head to kiss the inside of Henry’s palm. “How are you now?”
John took a moment to consider this. The pulsing had mostly gone, but he still did not trust his body to retain any food. And he was so very tired. He closed his eyes and let his head fall forward, slowly—slow enough for Henry to press his forehead against his.
“I haven’t done anything all day, yet…I’m exhausted,” he whispered.
Henry ran his fingers through John’s hair. His forehead left John’s, to instead drop a soft kiss to it.
“Come on,” Henry said. “You should lie down.”
John acquiesced. Henry fully settled on the bed, his back against the headboard, and his hands guided John's head down, not against a pillow, but to his lap. John blinked up at him to find his face lit up with a delighted smile. John settled, shoulders just below Henry’s crossed legs, back flat on the mattress. The room was bathed in golden light.
Henry’s thumbs were gentle on his forehead, and his fingertips on his temples. “What’s on your mind?”
And John smiled, a quick thing. Of course Henry could tell there was something more. Something that he had been thinking about for an ungodly amount of time. That with the upcoming polar expedition, he might never get a chance to say. His eyes began to burn. He bit his lip.
John reached up to curl his hand at the back of Henry’s neck. Henry, bowed over him, his eyes full of love, but with a tint of worry in the way his eyebrows turned up.
“I—” Tears, like cobwebs in his throat; he had to start over. “I wish I could marry you."
Henry’s smile did not falter, but the sadness in his eyes did not budge, either, now wet and twinkling.
“Oh, John.” Hands over John’s cheeks, catching unexpected tears that had slid there. A kiss to the bridge of his nose. “So do I.”