Work Text:
Martin feels a tickle at the back of his throat, and tries his best to suppress the cough. It comes out as a weak huff instead of loud hacking, which he counts a minor success. But no matter how he wishes he could deny it, it is impossible to avoid the fact that he’s felt this coming on, general malaise heralding yet another decline into infirmity. Damn, damn, damn. As summer gives way to autumn, the year can hardly be said to have ended, but the nights are already growing chill. And with the change in the weather, so too comes this all too predictable change in his health, cool winds stealing in around the edges of their cottage, seeping into his bones and bringing weakness in their wake.
And so Martin does what he always does, as long as his body allows. He resolutely ignores his failing health and throws all his attention to what pursuits he is capable of. He knows his limits well enough not to go racketing about the countryside, but that does not preclude focus on other things.
He wraps himself in a banyan – even in the gentle afternoon sunlight, golden fingers stretching long across the pastures without, he cannot seem to get warm – and sits at his desk, pulling out the latest novel he has been given to translate.
He tries to lose himself in the work, his quill scratching along paper. He sniffs as he reads a particularly dire passage. The novel is drivel, hardly worth the paper it is printed on, but money is money, and even the few pounds he gets from this make him feel more at ease than his status as nobility ever did, above such common things as employment. It is not the attitude expected of his class, but he finds he no longer much cares what others of his supposed class feel. He witnessed far more than enough of his father’s extravagances and cruelties, and he no longer wants any part of the society that enabled that.
But work is no cure for rising faintness, and he finds his mind wandering from the page before him, his eyes losing focus even as he tries to read and reread a line. He groans, burying his face in his hands. It’s useless. There is no way he’ll be able to accomplish anything further tonight. He will only bash his head against the edges of his illness, landing him in bed for days, incapable of anything but surviving.
Even as he decides to pack up for the night, a cough tears from his throat, racking through his body. And of course, Will chooses this exact moment to return to their cottage. Damnation. Of course Will would choose the perfect inopportune time to enter.
“I’m fine,” Martin rasps before Will can even open his mouth. Martin’s voice is hoarse with his cough, the precursor to a horrid sore throat. He clears his throat, then repeats in a more normal voice. “I’m fine.”
Will crosses over to him, wrapping one strong arm around Martin’s shoulder even as he presses a hand to Martin’s forehead. “You’re warm,” Will says, concern coloring his voice.
“You’re just cold from being outdoors,” Martin sniffs, shivering dramatically as if Will’s entrance has brought ice into their abode. But it is, as ever, precisely the opposite. Will burns like a furnace, his warmth seeping pleasantly into Martin’s skin even through their layers of fabric, clothing no match for the heat that blooms between them. Martin sighs as he sinks into Will’s hold, realizing even as he does the still muscles he has been ignoring in favor of continuing to work.
“You need rest,” Will says, but even his voice is warm, wrapping around Martin’s body like a dearly missed blanket. It has been only hours since they last spoke, but every time they part feels like an eternity. Never mind that they have known each other their whole lives, adding romance into the mix still leaves Martin unexpectedly off kilter, not quite sure of his step, the ground shifting beneath him. But any time he thinks he might misstep, Will is there to catch him, strong arms holding him fast.
Martin purses his lips in a moue of discontent. “And abandon you so soon? I think not.” He brings one of his hands – cold as ice – to cover Will’s. Will winces, but turns his hand to entwine his fingers with Martin’s, wrapping heat into their joining.
Will smiles at Martin, the expression fondly exasperated. “I’ll stay with you, no matter what.”
Martin lets his hand trail up Will’s arm, smiling what he’s certain is a foolish smile back. But that’s of no consequence. Will has seen him at his worst, and for all Martin’s dignity, Will is the one person he can let his guard down around. “Perhaps I could be convinced to lie in that bed if I had someone to accompany me.”
Will raises his eyebrows. “Is that so?” Will wraps his arms around Martin’s waist, drawing him even closer. “I might know someone who could help you with that.” Martin presses his forehead to Will’s, closing his eyes to better appreciate the sensation of their bodies together. Will is warm and strong and smells of fresh air and the outdoors, and Martin wants to bury himself in this embrace and never emerge.
“Then I would be glad to meet him,” Martin sighs against Will’s lips. Their lips are so close now, just a breath away, and Martin finally does what he has been longing to do since Will walked out of the door this morning. He presses their lips together, and Will surges into the embrace, his earlier hesitance abandoned.
And now, finally, finally, Martin feels warm, the burning heat of sunlight made flesh that is Will banishing all remnants of his earlier chill. With Will by his side, he hardly even needs a fire. While he knows his illness and the cold are never far, for now the two of them generate more than enough heat to defeat impending winter storms.