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For someone who called himself a doctor, Ludo had never been preoccupied with his own health.
He would often go days without sleeping, then go days without waking up. He would become so preoccupied with work that he wouldn’t shift from an uncomfortable position for hours, and the next second be so unable to focus that just the thought of putting gloves on would have him itching to take a walk. When people were around, he'd be dead quiet, and when he was alone, he'd talk incessantly.
Perhaps worst of all, he had terrible eating habits. Even the most mildly interesting work - ranging from trying to wrestle chunks of metal from a coworker's resisting musculature to sorting a new shipment of beakers over and over, by size, by shape, by color - could keep him so busy he'd forget to eat altogether.
Mick was very aware of this, and he found it extremely hypocritical that Ludo had the gall to lecture him about his own lifestyle.
“You eat like a dog,” Ludo chided, as he always did, not unkindly, leaning over the counter and watching Mick pick scraps off a demolished rotisserie chicken with his bare hands.
“And you eat like a university student,” Mick snapped back, referring to Ludo's habit of making meals out of fossilized potato chips and beer in his room at night. And you ain't university-age anymore, he thought to himself. Jabs at his age seemed to rarely affect Ludo, but Mick still felt like it was playing dirty. It wasn't like his body was as durable as it used to be either, even if he was younger.
“I really do wish you took better care of yourself, schatz." Ludo leaned further over the counter to make eye contact with Mick, his voice getting all high and soft and sickeningly sweet. He was resting on his elbows, his chin in his hands. "For me?"
Mick rolled his eyes and sucked chicken grease off his fingers. "You're a real hypocrite, you know that?"
"Then why don't we do it together? Eat together, sleep together…" Ludo clasped his hands and leaned even further forward, blinking rapidly. When Mick didn’t respond, he smiled widely. The effect was probably a bit creepier than he intended.
"If you think you can just bat your eyes at me and get whatever you want-" But Mick didn't need to finish his sentence. Ludo had already won and he knew it. Letting out a delighted squeal, he flung himself across the rest of the counter and kissed Mick full on the mouth. Sliding off, he started rattling off a list of all his plans, the most appealing items of which seemed to have little to do with self-improvement at all. Chirping goodbye, Ludo turned up the stairs and out of the kitchen, still chattering.
Mick stood there in his wake, covered in chicken drippings that Ludo had spilled when he kissed him. It would probably take both of them a lot more than a couple nights with eight hours of sleep to turn their lives around.
—---
As weeks went on, Mick actually started to feel better. A lot better. Better than he’d ever felt, actually
He had voiced this feeling exactly once and decided to never do so again after the vindication made Ludo so insufferably smug that he wouldn’t leave Mick alone for days. But he didn't need to voice his feelings - the improvement was apparent in everything about him. He had gained weight. The dark bruises had disappeared from under his eyes. He wasn't so irritable. He didn't become a fantastic conversationalist, but he stopped responding to almost every prompt with only noncommittal grunts and variations on startlingly Australian swears.
And as much as he didn't want to admit it, he really liked being doted on by Ludo, and he could tell Ludo was taking a lot of enjoyment in it too. Despite his habits, Ludo was very good at cooking, even better at eating, and the best at persuading Mick to join him. Mick spent a lot of mornings eating breakfasts with meat and eggs and bread to keep up his end of the deal and a lot of evenings curled up on the break room couch after dinner, comfortably full for the first time in years, idly watching whatever sport was on TV as he waited for Ludo to join him.
Ludo, true to his word, seemed to be doing better too. He was eating more, drinking less, sleeping well, and showering regularly. When he nuzzled against Mick on the couch, he always smelled distinctly like dinner and shaving cream. Mick never said so, but he liked this, too.
Most nights would end like that, their long bodies curled up to fit together on a shabby sofa or in Ludo's cot or in Mick's camper, Mick's cheek resting against Ludo's chest or Ludo's nose buried into the crook of Mick’s neck. It was like this - arms wrapped around bellies, soft, savory kisses pressed to necks and jaws and collarbones, fingers tangled in hair, rare compliments exchanged in the dark - when each realized quietly to himself that it was worth it. It was worth it to stay, and not only to stay, but to improve. There was something to live for, each realized, right there with him.
"I love you."
"Ssshh, get some sleep."
But for the two of them, get some sleep or have something to eat held something a thousand I love yous never could.