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When Makarov wakes up one morning with shaking chills and white-hot pressure stabbing through his chest, the first thing he does is curse God for his misfortune.
The next is to thank him for the gift of foresight.
The rolling of the Serkonos-bound ship sends nausea spiking through his gut and up his throat, threatening to spill over into the ceramic pot clutched in his clammy hands. Yelena had been gracious enough to bring him a clean one, though where she got it from, he couldn’t say. He hadn’t bothered to ask, in part because he didn’t want to know—although right now his primary concern is to stay alive and sane. The “staying alive” part of that objective seems to be going well so far; he’s managed to keep down at least half the food he eats, and the few vials of elixir they’d managed to smuggle aboard alleviates the worst of the symptoms. Hopefully it’ll continue this way; to die a blood-weeping plague death in the dark, humid bowels of a 19th century emigrant ship would be a humiliating conclusion to this second chapter of life.
Makarov screws his eyes shut when the ship lurches and sends bile rushing up his throat. It’s close, but he chokes it down. His sweat-slick palms slip against the side of the pot, and he clutches it close like a lifeline. If this ship's patient zero hadn’t died already, he’d track them down and crack their fucking skull open himself—
The creaking of the cabin door heralds Yelena’s return. Finally. Clean water sloshes in the thick glass jug she carries to the edge of the bed, and he bites back a snide remark about her timing as she kneels and fills the cup beside his bed halfway with water.
“Another one fell ill,” she says, in Russian—or perhaps Tyvian, to be more precise. She pauses to adjust the scarf hiding the lower half of her face. “A young lady in cabin class.”
Makarov says nothing.
It had started in steerage. A young boy, no older than fifteen, woke up one morning with shaking chills. Fever claimed him three days later. He’d died long before he had the chance to weep, so some had held onto the feeble hope that it was something else, perhaps a Serkonan flu. And when they slipped his scrawny gray body into the sea, others hoped the outbreak had been brought to a premature end. The boy’s sister and father fell ill that very night. The crew scrambled to contain the sickness, but it was too late; plague cut through steerage like a scythe through wheat, killing half of them before moving on to intermediate class.
Makarov had prepared for this. He’d taken every precaution: he’d washed his hands raw, ate only the canned meals he and Yelena had packed, and distanced himself from the others, even going as far as to cover his face with a scarf when he was forced to mingle with the rest of the passengers. He’d instructed Yelena to do the same. Of course, it hadn’t been enough. A few moments within six feet of a bare-faced maid was all it took for the disease to sink its claws into him. At least, he thinks he got it from her; she came down with fever the morning after they’d spoken, and three days later, he was sick, too.
The maid is dead now. Not of plague, funnily enough, but because something in the elixir closed her throat. At least a brutal death by anaphylaxis spared the miserable bitch the early stages of plague—the symptoms of which now torment Makarov. Swollen lymph nodes and all.
Yelena pulls Makarov’s luggage from the compartment under the bunk and produces a vial of bright red elixir from its wrappings. He’s thankful he’d managed to convince her not to report their supply to the captain, as had been requested of them when they boarded; if they had, it would’ve been seized and rationed out to the rest of the crew and passengers like all the other elixir on board. Most of it is gone now, with the scarce remains given only to the afflicted with the best chances. Makarov’s supply is quite small—only five vials could fit in their luggage without risk of breakage or discovery—but hopefully it will be enough. It must be; he’s strong, fit, and had saved enough money to secure passage in intermediate class, but now that the plague’s spread to the important ones, the rich ones, they’ll be the ones prioritized in the rationing, age and strength be damned.
Yelena pours just enough elixir to fill the rest of the cup, then swiftly tucks the vial back into its hiding place. She swirls the cup once, twice, then sets it on the floor and slides it into Makarov’s reach. He extends a trembling hand, and the cup slips from his weak fingers when he attempts to lift it. He curses, but thankfully, his spike of fear is short-lived; the cup only drops an inch and lands upright, spilling no water.
Part of Makarov wants to bark at Yelena to go away. Not out of concern for her health (though she is sitting a bit too close to be safe), but because the open worry in her eyes makes him feel small. Helpless. He grits his teeth and grabs the cup again; this time he’s able to lift it, but the rim shakes against his lip and the watered elixir taunts him just beyond the reach of his tongue. The ship rocks, his joints scream in protest, and he can’t tip the cup further, for fear of wearing his drink instead of swallowing it.
Yelena scoots closer. The sharp look he shoots her doesn’t stop her from slipping her hand around the cup and angling it further for him; the watered elixir kisses his lips, and though the flavor is sharp and sour and wholly unpleasant, he drinks it down like the sweetest wine. Yelena lowers the cup to give Makarov a chance to breathe (or at least attempt to—one breath and he’s reduced to a coughing mess), then lets him drink the rest once he’s ready.
He closes his eyes when she lowers the cup for the final time, half-expecting to hear the trickle of water as Yelena pours him a pure serving—and flinches when the back of Yelena’s hand instead rests gently atop his sweat-beaded forehead.
“Your fever has gone up,” she says softly.
Makarov turns his head away.
“Don’t touch me.” His weak voice carries only a dull edge.
“I’ll wet you a cloth,” she answers, as if Makarov had said something else entirely, or nothing at all. She steps away, and it’s a few minutes of rummaging and shuffling and soft muttering before Yelena returns and drapes a cool, damp cloth against Makarov’s forehead. The sensation rushes from his skull down to the tips of his toes, refreshing as a summer breeze, and it even alleviates some of the pounding in his skull. A gentle hand brushes back his sweat-damp hair, an attempt to soothe him. It’s enough to unravel some of his tension, and as he sinks deeper into his pillows, he lips part as his face slackens. His hands come to rest at his sides, the ceramic pot now balanced freely in his lap.
“You should sleep,” Yelena murmurs.
Makarov tries another angle. “You shouldn’t touch me.”
“Maybe not,” says Yelena. But she lingers, her fingers still carding through his hair. It’s intimate and almost motherly, the way she touches him. Like she knows he hasn’t been touched like this in years. He decides to accept it.
It has to work through a tight, aching chest and a ragged throat, but the sigh Makarov lets out is soft and deceptively smooth. He’d barely slept last night, and the combination of exhaustion and Yelena’s soothing touch tempts him into the embrace of sleep. He knows his current vulnerability will leave him mortified when (if) he wakes later, but damn it all, he can’t bring himself to care. Instead, he surrenders and allows himself the journey into gentle, temporary dark.